


Iron Wrought

by yeoltidecarol



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Breeding, Creampie, Drama & Romance, Exes to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, Impregnation, Jealousy, Marking, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Possessive Sex, Unprotected Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/pseuds/yeoltidecarol
Summary: You met Chanyeol when you were young and wild, when the responsibilities of adulthood were little more than a fantasy. Your love, you were certain, would be talked about throughout history, and you couldn’t wait to see it. After your father’s passing and your ascension to power as the head of his iron business, you broke off your engagement. Few things would cause you as much pain as seeing Chanyeol spend his life surrounded by Parliament and politics. Now, at your annual investors feast, the most unexpected guest arrives - and he is seeking retribution.
Relationships: Park Chanyeol/Reader, Park Chanyeol/You
Kudos: 26





	Iron Wrought

The oil painting always seems to come alive at night, the memory of him lifting the ardor within your heart much the same way wind so easily lifts wings.

Tonight, all the candles along your mantle are aflame, woefully dripping their white wax in messy smears as though he is the sun and they are Icarus, hugging too close to his warm glow. They cower beneath him, much like you so often do - awed and overpowered and emboldened, the yellow and blue of their glow almost combative in their efforts to outshine his radiance. To you, the slow journey of the wax is not unlike tears tears, wet streaks of heartbreak glinting amongst the light while you, conversely, remain dry eyed, though not impassive, pressing the cool crystal of your glass to your lips. Tonight, you are dark - darkened by wine, by time, and by the pining that always seems to take root in the graveyard of your ribs, bereft, yet again, by the sight of his wide eyes. 

Solitude never truly sat well on his features, the loneliness of the portrait now iconoclastic to your memory of the way the humor and pleasure and the colour of a well spent evening would nestle in the softness of his cheeks. He craved absolutely everything from everyone, each moment with him a race to full and complete understanding. And only at the end of an evening, suddenly finding himself alone, he would begin to ache, his bones battling against the pressure of his mind as it caved inward. 

Always, his thoughts were too heavy for him to bear, his words a sacrament of intimacy that was meant to be shared, meant to be witnessed, and heard; you clung to every word he said, his every thought a communion more holy and more tangible than the cross above your door. In his gratitude he would become small for you, curled at your side as his hands walked the length of your skin, greedy and seeking comfort; one laugh from you, he said, and he would feel his whole existence brought to a sense of calm, the borders of his spirit learning to find ease.

And so that he should remain before you, etched in oil and trapped in an enduring emptiness, you wonder if he feels, at least minutely, the explosive failing of your kindness.

You were meant to be in this picture, once, during a time when promises were so easily kept and the days of your youth seemed to extend into an endless, impenetrable eternity. Hugging yourself through the thin silk of your robe, you allow yourself to remember - Chanyeol, and the way he laughed, free and unbridled; the feel of his hands on your hips as you posed is instantly brought back to life. Neither of you could remain still, stealing looks and deep kisses in the seconds when the artist had looked away. Mind tainted by the tanin and the fractious power of a love drunk soul, you can almost see yourself there, standing before him, pressed against his chest and mystified by the way love can entrench the totality of a person. 

Even then, you were beautiful - beautiful in the careless, reckless sort of way a young woman, ignited by the passion of a man’s devoted hands and penetrative stare, forgets that there are rules and formalities to courting. Back then, you were so unafraid of being ruined, wishing and praying that it would happen, that you would be allowed to rebuild your name without the iron tether that led back to your father, to fortune, and to expectation. You wanted to wear Chanyeol’s name with honor, and were ready to burn the cadence of your last name away, stripping yourself all the way down to the void of your essence. You were ready to be impure for him, a new nothingness for him to blemish, hoping to be smeared with his name.

Yes, you can see yourself in this picture. In love and alive, and so ingloriously imprisoned. 

Instead, he is surrounded by an all encompassing black that eats its way through the vivid colours, casting a shadow of loneliness you don’t recall existing in Chanyeol’s eyes. But perhaps, it is you, so desperate to see it lingering there the same way it lingers in you, staining his visage just enough to stain his soul. Likeness contained only in the pigment of oil and acrylic, Chanyeol still finds all the light and eats it, the pink and the gold of his lips, cheeks, and hands seemingly ravenous in their vitality; greedy, in much the same manner as his mouth and his kisses, all his kisses, even the one that told you it was time to say goodbye. 

Chanyeol cupped your face with both hands, the pressure against your cheeks enough to make you gasp, feeling held and cherished as though you were something delicate or breakable. His eyes pleaded with you while yours searched his features, looking for a sign or a hint of reason for such sudden, anguished desperation. He looked stricken, torn, vanishing even though he wanted to stay. You wanted him to make you stay. 

When he kissed you, it felt hollow. Not that he was absent, no, it was likely the most passion he'd ever poured into a kiss, greedy enough to push his tongue against your lips and inside, roaming on your tongue, untoward and unbridled and so incomprehensibly alive. But even as he kissed you, devoured your soul and pulled it from your core, it felt like an ending. An ending and a beginning, all of it all at once and permanently trapping you in between. 

Perhaps, amidst his goodbye, it was the most violent he had ever been, taking all of you with him and leaving nothing for yourself.

From across the room, a pair of eyes bores into your profile, sending a warm flush of heat up your neck, exposed. You do not need to look, not bothering to tear your gaze away from this holy vision, to know it is Bertrand, your manservant and loyal companion. After so many years of this, you think he should be used to it, to catching you so free and liberated in your craving. And you, after so long of being vulnerable and witnessed, should come to expect that he would know and he would see, concerned, as always, for the wellbeing of your heart. 

But still, after so many years of this, you both allow yourselves the pleasure of being surprised by one another, a wonder, you fear, that may never cease.

‘Madam, are you well?’

Anxiousness puts a wilt in his voice so out of character for a man so strong. At this distance, his silhouette is still long, tall and foreboding enough to be imposing if one is ill-prepared to be greeted by his shadows. Spine seemingly made of steel, his posture is a marvel born of training and pride, shoulders rolled back in admiration of his station and of you. Having been with you since childhood, he keeps your best interest at the forefront of his mind, always, likely unable to consider anything else first after so many years of making it a habit.

And it is in your best interest that he stops these moments of deep nostalgia, moments in which you retreat so deeply within yourself and into your past that, often, there is no reprieve for the anguish that seems to live at the forefront of your heart. Even after all these years, the pining in you still pulls at wounds that bleed for a home you abandoned, your arms wrapped around your chest in the hope of being as warm as his skin. Yes, you know you wander from the reality of your own making, brutality, alarmingly so, and his cold voice is the only thing that forces your return to the grey consequences of your choices.

‘Madam,’ he repeats, tongue sharp against his teeth. ‘Are you well in tonight’s melancholia?’

Even without looking at him you can hear the way he raises one eyebrow in cool consideration, rocking on the balls of his feet as he watches you with concern. He tires of these evenings so quickly, ever adept at saving you from yourself.

‘Oh, Bertrand,’ you chuckle, amused by his attempts to dissolve the love you hold in your mouth. ‘This is no melancholy. That eternal yearning implies I cannot recall what has gone missing, that I should only feel the loss.’ 

Running your glass over your lip once more, you harden your gaze momentarily as you take in the portrait. As if you could ever forget, as if you would want to. 

‘No.’ The bitterness contained in your sigh is startling, your lips pressing into a thin line as you turn swiftly, offering the painting a view of your back. 

Regarding Bertrand with a neutral expression, you grit your teeth and chew the inside of your cheek, masking the way your bones already begin to ache. It hurts to look away, to disregard and abandon your sun and moon, blinded by his light and reminded how very empty the rest of the world is without him. Every night you relive this pain. Every night you are surprised by how much it still makes you tremble. 

‘I know exactly what I have lost. In this grief I am mourning.’

Bowing his head momentarily, he studies the polished leather of his shoes and chuckles though the sound is sad, a grim noise of abject defeat. When he looks at you again, the sympathy pooling in his eyes makes you grimace. ‘You lack a sense of time.’

‘Perhaps.’ Shrugging, you set your wine on the circular table beside your settee, lowering yourself elegantly to the cushion. Crossing your legs, your fingers twine together over your knee, and you lean forward, carefully stitching together your words. ‘I rather think I lack all sense of proportion. In the end, aren’t they the same thing?’

For a long moment, you merely regard one another, your brow narrowed in curiosity while his eyes swim with an understanding that is devoid of agreement. Bertrand has always been this way, meticulous and discerning, able to rationalize a person all the way down to their core even, and especially, if they are unprepared for it. As a child, you thought he would be a detective, all your secrets exposed to him with one endeared glance. But tonight, his affection remains hidden.

With brisk steps he strides toward the plush armchair across from you, settling into it as he folds his hands in his lap. The gold and red embers in the fireplace cast a deep glow in the old crevices beneath his cheeks, creating imposing lines and edges along his jaw that did not previously exist. It is not the first time you have seen him this way, though it is the first time he has ever looked at home and at peace in the finery of the deep velvet chair. Cocking his head to the side, he remains silent. 

His penetrative stare has you crossing your arms over your chest protectively, pressing yourself deep into your settee as you narrow your brow, equally as combative. Were it not for the hearth, full of flame and fresh wood, you would shiver.

‘Are you waiting for a sign you are forgiven?’ he asks eventually, the words piercing in their steady gait.

You remember waiting, remember the way it would wash over you until there was not a piece left untouched. It was a lonely activity, a mysterious sensation that eluded your understanding and bewildering in the way it almost always felt like anticipation. When you weren’t looking it would find you, build itself up in your chest until you thought something special or important was bound to happen, that kind of excitement little more than a betrayal. You were naive then, convinced the thrill of it was tangible proof of your hope, made manifest, only for the truth to be relieved, the ugliness of it stark and shrill in its contrast. 

Waiting never brought joy, only anxiety, a temper that built knots in your joints until your limbs were stiff enough to crack. Over time, the mask of optimistic elation wore thin, and you were too mired to shake yourself free. Even now, you are still surprised by the ways in which it slowly unmade you, turning over your palms in different light and studying how age and loss has turned you into iron. You were soft before you learned to wait, before the intensity of it was drained into the stagnancy of missing. 

Forcing a huff of breath through your nose, you cast your gaze into the fire, your sigh fading into a tense silence. ‘I have long since given up that endeavor,’ you say to the flames, not yet ready for Bertrand’s knowing expression. ‘Those who wait act out their reunion, and I could never anticipate his lines.’

To your chagrin Bertrand simply laughs, humorlessly. ‘I did not mean from him.’ Bristling, you look at him and scowl at his placid expression. ‘I meant to say, are you waiting to forgive yourself?’

Forgiveness. The word settles on you like a shroud, heavy against your shoulders and bending your posture just enough for you to feel pained by its intrusion in your quiet bed chamber. Years have passed you by, counted persistently onward, and still you battle with its syllables and its scornful reprimands. To forgive is not to absolve the past - it has been done, and cannot be undone. Actions will always carry their consequences onward, and all you have learned between then and now is that forgiveness is about the after. The future. How your onward will look without him by your side.

Your future, your every after, is hollow. Chanyeol’s laugh is an enduring echo which vibrates against your bones, it is neither a kiss nor a breath upon your skin, your body left in stasis waiting for pleasure. Chanyeol’s smile is not the dawn that greets you, your windows and your curtains left to contend with the harsh light of morning and the foolish way the earth thinks it is doing you a service greeting yet another day without him. All you have carried forward is grief, grief and a love that has continued to cause you ever more grief, a sacrifice that meant the sunflowers have turned away, looking no longer at you but elsewhere, to a morning that does not burn in its cruelty. 

‘We opened to one another.’ Even to your ears, your whisper sounds lost, distant. How cruel, you think, to be forced to detail your love for him with a language that cannot describe it. How insidious, you think, to even consider absolving yourself of this choice when you have no heart left within you at all. ‘I gave him my heart and he gave me a view of all the planets. Can you even imagine? To be loved so deeply you must consider your own mortal smallness? To love so wholly, most days you simply feel the terror of it? It’s unfair to expect me to forgive myself for letting the universe go, even if it deserved to be free.’

‘You are longing for him.’ Bertrand does not acknowledge the unfairness of the questions you have subjected him to. Picking at stray threads of his trousers, he eyes you cooly. ‘It is worse tonight than it has been in many years.’ 

Scoffing, you reach for your glass and let the wine darken you further. The smooth dryness bites at your tongue, and you press it against your teeth, gathering your strength. Your mouth still recalls the taste of Chanyeol’s lips, your blood is still full and flush with him, and in the memory of him you are something beastly. Always you feed on these memories, gluttonous and without guilt, as though each moment has left you starved for him. It never leaves you, not even a little, your heart begging for the spoon of his good graces.

‘One day,’ you begin, managing a smile you are certain he does not believe, ‘this will leave me. It gets worse before it gets better.’

Appearing solemn in the onslaught of your hunger, Bertrand shakes his head, putting distance between you and the acceptance of your wanting. ‘Love never dies, Mistress.’

The low grumble of his statement is interrupted by the arrival of your chamber maid, the large mahogany door opening with a soft click. Craning his neck over the back of the chaise, Bertrand watches her approach with a fond expression that softens all his features. The firelight glimmers over his skin, and now in this new light he appears significantly younger. Gone are the bags beneath his eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw and cheek replaced with a smooth expanse of skin, irises wide and sparkling. Enamored by the sight of her thick silver hair and the warm flush of pink she carries in her cheeks, his eyes follow Marlena on her journey to your four post bed. 

He is always this way when he regards his wife, suddenly jovial and young, a boy in a man’s clothes, wanting nothing more than to make her proud. Days and nights are spent in secret, doing his best to win her smiles. All these years, and he has convinced himself you do not notice, but she is not as cautious in her affections, her adoring laugh always seeming to echo off the high ceilings of the manor.

She carries your evening garments almost reverently, the expensive bodice and brocade skirts folded in her arms, held protectively against her chest. In her journey across the room, her eyes meet Bertrand’s for a single moment that seems to extend for a weightless eternity, and he turns back to regard the neat fabric of his trousers, smoothing nonexistent creases with the flat of his palms in an effort to hide his growing smile. Marlena places your dress on your bed with a pleased sigh, laying the garments neatly in order before turning to face you, her hands clasped primly behind her back. 

Tonight, she will dress you, as she so often does for dinners and galas such as the one you are meant to host this evening. Throughout the years, her knuckles have grown taught with the strength necessary to tighten your corset, and only she has the age and wisdom needed to prepare for a night full of men wishing to take pieces of you as their own. 

‘Love is something that follows,’ he continues, as though there had been no distraction at all. ‘It never really leaves us.’

Marlena clears her throat prudently, eyeing her husband conspicuously in a silent reprimand. Chuckling, you set your wine back on the table and rise to a stand, admiring their quiet method of communication. You gave looks like these to Chanyeol once, soft smiles and glances that transcended language, always understood and always reciprocated. It was strange, then, to find yourself always so witnessed and seen, but you yearned for it even in all its foriegn discomfort. 

In a sense, Bertrand is correct - love _is_ a thing that follows, that longs to belong to the other, seeking the very notion of belonging. It stays in the blood long after space and distance has deemed this belonging impossible, your atoms still searching for Chanyeol even in places he cannot be found. Through the stubborn passage of time, you plead with the night to still be his. In the dark, you sense him. In your bed, you still feel him, the pillows warm with the ghost of an embrace. Loving Chanyeol is the act of your heart following where his soul has been, finding touches in his ghost long left behind.

But you notice the way Bertrand does not continue his assessment, does not let the carnal words, the vengeful words, infiltrate his understanding. For you, to love is to hunger. This love carried in your chest eats at your marrow and chews diligently at the cavernous shell of your heart, the muscle a gnarled, shredded thing that persists in all its irrational beating. Loving Chanyeol is not only the unfulfilled act of following or belonging, it is the endless howl of feasting. Heartsick, you are trapped in a ravenous hunger that refuses to abandon you, the taste of him held so viscerally in your mouth, liver, life, and limbs it is a rage that follows, and little else.

‘No,’you mutter, finally, shaking your head. Once more you glance at the painting, hoping this stolen glance goes unnoticed. You are certain it does not. ‘He simply changed his address.’ 

Pressing the heels of his hands into his thighs, Bertrand rises to a stand and mirrors your posture, grimacing. The candlelight along the mantle joins the glow emanating from the fire, igniting his features, and you watch him revert back to his proper age, his usual features, imposing in the way his broad shoulders cast high shadows. Holding his gaze with a ferocity that has always come naturally to your combative and passionate nature, you both remember in silence: your love letter, handwritten with pressed lavender and cherry blossoms; the stationary, tear stained by your failed attempts at maintaining composure; the post marked address crossed out, return to sender written in handwriting you could not recognize. He’d moved, left for travel, you hoped, his heart always too big to be contained in just one place.

He’d abandoned the places and the people that hurt him most, and you could not blame him. It was selfish, you thought, to expect him to miss you.

‘You must be in the parlor by six,’ Bertrand says simply, slowly casting the emotion out of his words until all that remains is authoritative urgency of propriety. ‘The guests will be arriving soon.’

With that, he bends in a polite bow and quietly excuses himself, but not before he looks, once more, to Marlena, drinking her in, like water to a sapling, before departing the room altogether. 

Marlena makes quick work of your robes and skirts, dressing you with deft hands that have grown rough from the abrasive soaps. She hums while she tends to your stays and bodies, tying your skirts with a familiar lullaby that always brings you a sense of calm before events such as these. You dread them, dread the watchful steely eyes of men who have not yet learned to yield to your legacy. It should have gone to a son, they say - as if you are not enough. It should have gone to a husband, they always argue - as if you are not enough. How easily you tire of their arrogant conversations, and how easily Marlena always seems to calm you with her gentle song. 

While your hands grip the post of your bed frame for balance, she tightens your corset quickly and your mind begins to wander. Chanyeol had a voice not unlike a nightingale, a single exhale of breath so full of the tremendous glory of music you felt as though you could capsize beneath your admiration. The first words he ever uttered to you became the very magic of his seduction; his voice a sanctuary, the odes he would whisper against your skin more sacred than a hymnal. Your recollection burns with the noise of him, rich honey for you to drink and drink, the very nature of it demanding you be consumed. 

And you let him. You do not think there has been a day when you were not a hungry creature, full of need for his praises. 

'Mistress…’ 

Marlena’s compassionate announcement breaks your thoughts, providing empathy where her husband provided protection.

Tightening your hold on the post, you cast a sly glance in her direction, smiling in reassurance. ‘I feel as though I know precisely what you will say.’

‘It’s the way you look at him, and pine for him, Mistress. That painting has taken more than just your youth.’ She enunciates her words with a tight pull of the corset strings, the contrast of the force to the sweet gentleness of her words making you release a hiss of breath between your teeth. ‘There are dangers to living in a love this long.’

‘Oh, but that is where you are wrong.’ Pushing off the post, you remove yourself from her hold, turning to place your hands lovingly on her shoulders. The smile you wear is sympathetic, distant at best, but not mournful. You’re uncertain who you are trying to comfort, your well practiced thoughts and sentiments failing in their endeavors this evening, and you can tell she feels no sense of serenity in the earnestness of your statements. ‘Has anyone ever asked you or Bertrand how it is to be married so long?’

She regards you with a bewildered stare, eyes searching yours for hidden meaning. ‘I’m unsure what you are implying, my lady. That’s not a question I’ve sought to answer.’

‘And that,’ you sigh with relief, lifting your palms to cup the soft flesh of her cheeks, ‘is precisely why I cannot call this love. Everyone supposes love is the journey of union, the act of coming together. No one considers the after, what you and Bertrand have endured. You know the skill and the choice of it, the commitment and the burning frustration of it.’

Marlena takes your hands in hers and eases them to your sides, gesturing for you to rotate so she can finish her work. ‘I know you think you believe the words you say, Mistress, but I do so often believe you protest as a habit.’

Rolling your eyes, you oblige her, turning heavily on your feet to grip the post once more. It always astounds you how easily Marlena sees through your words and your posturing, as perceptive as her husband but somehow infinitely more penetrative. The softness that has come alongside her age has done nothing to ease the blow of her observations, your chest still tight and heavy with the lie. If you were less tenacious, perhaps you would concede, but as your eye wanders, betraying your stoicism, you realize that the loving hour has already bloomed in your heart, and you search, fitfully, for the right sentiments to smother it.

‘I have spent my life in a single moment of pure, untarnished desire,’ you explain, staring at Chanyeol’s portrait and hoping tonight, maybe tonight, you can finally believe your words. It proves difficult, you realize, under the constant reminder that he was the only person you ever wanted to talk to, your love words seemingly invented by the very act of his breathing. ‘I am permanently at the start of love, without ever knowing its outcome.’

~~~~

Your hand presses into the smooth cherry railing as you slowly descend the stairs, the soft amber candlelight which flickers sporadically from beyond the main parlor casts tall shadows along the floor. The closer you get, the more the nuance and depth to each silhouette fills you with apprehension, your smile polite even if it is ultimately disingenuous. 

No matter how many times you host these evenings, no matter the ways in which you occupy your time between one annual dinner and the next, you find you are never truly used to the leering gazes of your guests. It is not that you asked your father to bequeath his business and fortune to you, there was merely no other option, and it was your duty that you assume his position upon his death. You’d never longed for a sibling before that moment, likely had never yearned for any companion at all until Chanyeol had provided a brief glimpse at an alternative. In the end, you’d given a lot up for your family and for yourself, learning the true meaning of sacrifice the day your father read his will out loud to you and your mother, his eyes full of meaning as he watched for your reactions just beyond the parchment. 

His body was not yet cold when the deeds and bank notes had been signed over in your name, the ink still wet and staining your fingers like the soot from the iron you were deemed to control. 

It took weeks to learn the names of each of his investors, and even more still were consumed with the taxing effort of surmising the history and the politics of the business. Running your finger down the list, your expression would droop ever so slightly into a deep frown, lips weighed down by syllables carrying as much importance as money between the letters. But this could not compare to the way they looked at you - pity mixed with disdain, resulting in a marriage of contempt nestling into the wrinkles of their sour character. 

_It should have gone to a son,_ they would whisper, as though you could not hear them - as though there was any son at all. It should have gone to her husband, they would amend, only to realize you are a spinster in power, the hate in their hearts kissing at the greed in their blood. Winning their favor, and most importantly the good graces of their bank books, those first few years felt akin to an ice pick against your pride, chipping ceaselessly away until there was nothing left. A parade into a zoo more than a dinner party, you would dress with tears and smile with empty eyes, learning the climb to glory is a hungry mouth, eating the pain to spit out bones sharp as knives.

Over time the lie became something simple, something natural and almost inherent to your personality, if only because there appeared to be a silent agreement not to talk about it. Everyone knows - everyone always knows, and this, perhaps, is the only lesson your father ever truly imparted upon you: 

Men have an obsession with success, equal in relation to their fear of being forgotten, and so they will sedate themselves with silence when power and beauty converge upon a single point if only to earn its praises.

When you reach the landing your eyes fall closed, nails scratching lines on the railing as you ground in this single moment of pure darkness, pure solitude. Exhaling slowly through your nose, you plant your feet firmly to the floor, harnessing all your restraint and all your strength into this moment - the moment before you will have to turn yourself into the viper you chose to become. 

You wanted this, you remind yourself. With the choice made on behalf of you, and without little consent from your own will, you eventually learned you wanted to keep your name, to turn your father’s legacy into your own - to feel, just once, the way a man feels when they are in control. You wanted this, but not the cost, not the way you are, so often, beholden to twenty men who eagerly await your downfall.

Eyes open, you release these thoughts. This is your house, your space, your control. Long ago you determined you were your own maker, no footsteps to follow but your own, and they are the ones who must measure the prints you leave behind.

In the parlor, a crowd of men wait for you, all Lords of good standing. Dispersed evenly around the room and engaged in conversation, their well pressed suits whisper the secrets of their wealth like a tell. They are begging to be noticed, noticed and admired, quiet peacocks engaging in propriety for sport. Talking quietly amongst themselves, some hold crystal glasses of champagne while others scan the room in appraisal, eyeing the tense shoulders and straight backs of their competition with smirks tugging at the corner of their lips. This evening, you are surprised to see a few unfamiliar faces, new members of parliament's lower tiers awaiting your introduction. As you take a turn about the room, you feel their eyes fall on your figure, the elegance of your dress, and they way your hands remain soft even though they are fearless, unafraid to bend a man’s will should he provide you with nothing but disappointments.

‘Gentlemen,’ you begin congenially, coming to stand at the front of the room. Looking around the parlor, you greet them but you do not see them, not really, eyes wandering over their faces without retaining any details at all. ‘It appears you are all far more prompt than I. I am tardy for my own dinner.’ 

‘Don’t mind us dear, we were merely early in our enthusiasm of spending the evening with such a _remarkable_ companion.’ 

Lord Denton speaks loudly over the polite chuckling that echoes off the walls, champagne flute clutched in his grasp and paying no mind to its delicate stem. Even from where you stand you can see the brief sparkle of his polished cufflinks, the diamond at the center of his ascot a warning and a tell of his impending high bid. The small spotting of grey hair that has begun to infiltrate the thick ebony of his sideburns shows his age, but does little to diminish the vindictive edge to his charm. He eyes you conspicuously, nodding in your direction in a show of what would have been fliration had you not heard the abrasive tone to his words. The very sound of his voice puts a bitter flavor on your tongue, your own gaze darkening as you regard him cooly.

A warm body presses against your side and interrupts your thoughts, nudging at you gently for your attention as he speaks. 

‘Don’t mind him, he’s a brown noser.’ 

‘Lord Haysmith!’ Unable to help the spread of your smile, you wrap him in a warm embrace, delighted to see your father’s dearest friend. ‘What a relief,’ you breathe, inhaling the comfort of his cologne. ‘I thought you’d graduated from auctions such as this.’

Lord Haysmith laughs at your turn of phrase, always appreciative of your tongue’s sharp honesty. His laughter jostles the white hair atop his head, his signature curls still in place. Folding his hands behind his back, he begins a slow walk towards the back corner of the room, and you follow suit, wanting his company more than any other. Spine having curled slowly over as he wandered into old age, it is strange to you now to stand so tall above him in your high shoes, but his wisdom and authority still renders you small, young, cloying at the tails of his coat for his comfort.

‘Yes, well,’ he muses quietly, offering you a knowing smirk, ‘the Duke of Townsend has advised me to extend his well wishes, and also his pocket book.’ 

You’re glad for him, truly, for the favor he has fallen into with the Duke and the way he has found immeasurable comfort in the final stretch of his life. But still, you miss him, miss the way his eyes would sparkle at each dinner, teasing the other guests in the coded way he always would with your father, a joke just for you to enjoy. Even without his attendance, he still invests, even though he no longer needs to, even though it is no longer truly his position. 

You still keep his letters, the ones that say the investment is yours and not your father’s, that he would love you like his own even without the name. 

‘I see,’ you hum, looping your arm through his, though if it is for your comfort or his, you cannot tell. ‘I readily accept his well wishes. His pocket book, however, has yet to be seen.’

‘Sly little cat,’ he teases, elbowing you gently in the side. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s a new member of parliament. I’ve taken him under my wing.’

Five years have passed since the last vote to allow new members to join, and now with this past winter’s voting season you have been eager to meet fresh faces, to welcome something new. ‘How thrilling,’ you exclaim, beaming at his profile. ‘You know I love fresh meat.’

Returning your attention to the trajectory of your path, your feet begin to slow, legs growing heavy as they begin to protest the movement, willing you to halt altogether. Lord Haysmith leads you directly to a man whose back remains turned, but even still you recognize him without a moment’s hesitation. In a crowded room, you will _always_ see him, will always find him first, unable to have done so if only because he has situated himself, rather meekly, by the large fanning leaves of your potted plant which keeps him covered.

Even with the slight slump in his shoulders, a signature habit he has had since he was young and learning to be a man, in the effort of remaining small and remaining humble, he still stands with an elegance and poise that runs your mouth dry. All these years, and still you think he cradles the sun in the curvature of his neck and shoulders. All these years, and still you lean forward, desperately needing to be near him, needing all of him all at once, the hunger in you wet with treason. The strength of his magnetism has not faded, your skin tight and your lungs aching, and even in this pain you still feel him, everywhere he’s ever been. Your skin and blood echo at the sight of him, the war of your heart against your sternum little more than a cathedral bell in your chest.

When Chanyeol turns to greet you, he shows no sign or tell of familiarity, ever the master of keeping his emotions tucked far away from the edges of his smile. To the untrained eye, you are merely strangers, newly acquainted and his smile only lingers too long, perhaps, because your reputation does nothing to detail your beauty. These very words have been said to you, over and over from mouths and hearts which do not mean it. And he would say it to you now, would have meant it to the core of the earth until the very sound of it connected the pores of your skin with fissures of wanting, if perhaps he was not intimately acquainted with details of the way your beauty so often is akin to poison.

To the untrained eye, you have never met, and there is little else to witness in this exchange. But you see it, can’t help but notice it because one look and you are helpless, just like always, enraptured with the warm chocolate of his eyes. The molten memory of longing pools in his irises, and the heat of your own rises in the center of your chest, spreading up your neck and into your jaw, your brow furrowed in the effort of maintaining your composure. He looks at you and you feel him inside you, where he has always been, the air of the room changing its shape and texture because he is here, and he is all the light that ever was. 

‘My dear, this is Lord Park,’ Lord Haysmith says, blithely unaware of the exchange occurring before him. 

The sound of his name is a brand upon your skin, an imprint brought to the surface as a reminder of all the ways you are, and always have been, _his._ Politely, you extend your hand in greeting, palm downturned and fingers relaxed while the rest of you feels wrought enough to break. A pretty flush turns the tips of his ears pink, the ever familiar itch that blooms beneath your skin returning once more, demanding that you touch them, run the pads of your fingers in a gentle caress once more over the shell to soothe the rush of his blood. Stepping forward, Chanyeol keeps his eyes on yours, a look that sears the gaps between your ribs with hot coals, breath hot and heavy in your lungs, as he reaches for you, not like he used to but still with the same heartfelt conviction.

The wind carries his motions as a whisper of intent, the touch of his fingers to yours felt long before they brush against the smooth skin of your wrist. This anticipation of contact is loaded with memory, this first communion delivering you to a liminal space, brought forward once again. And even though you remember the feeling of loving him, remember the aftermath and the way you were suddenly, permanently, changed, you find you are wholly unprepared for the brutality of experiencing it, all at once and all over again.

_Chanyeol held your hand so tightly, you were certain your bones would give over, reshaping to make space for his knuckles to nestle in the small gaps between yours. You pulled him into your father’s study, your mother’s laugh echoing from the floor below while she entertained your father’s guests with her skills on the piano forte. He shut the door behind him with impatience, unable to look away from you while he tugged your hand, pulling you against his chest to hold you against him. For a long while, you breathed together, his nose running along the tendon of your neck, taking you in and taking you deep. Against him, you were shaking, a love like this too much to contain in the smallness of your bones, feeling close enough you could smell his heart and the way it thirsted for you._

_Fingers carding through the hair at the back of his neck, you pressed yourself against him and felt his hands begin to tremble, lips pressing open mouth kisses just below your jaw. You whispered his name, and his eyes fluttered, eyelashes tickling your skin, the sigh that tumbled from his chest a sacrament on which you learned to pray._

_‘We have minutes at best,’ you mumbled, shifting your hands to cup his face, fingers grazing along his ears as you pulled him back just enough to see him._

_The distance was too much to bear, his forehead coming to rest against yours, becoming needy in the tragedy of your separation. ‘Minutes are never enough,’ he whispered, his large palm carefully holding the back of your head as he let his nose trace along your cheekbone. ‘I need whole lifetimes.’_

_You were warm, then, blood like fire and lips like summer, the strength of his arms the only thing tethering you to your corporal form. The tip of your finger ran slowly over his ear and down just below the lobe, tilting his head just enough to press a featherlight kiss to the skin. Gravity could not hold him, a keening whine slipping from his chest as he sighed against you, becoming soft and pliant as he did his best to burrow into your soul. And in that moment, you learned what it meant to kiss the sunrise, holding the dawn within your palms._

He wastes no time in stroking his fingers idly over the veins that rest beneath the thin covering of skin, luxuriating in the action of taking hold of your bones, reclaiming them and reminding you they were always his to take. You shiver, trembling like the moon against water, and you know that he can feel it, the simple act of holding your hand a lifeline to the very rest of you. Eyes widening, you watch as he bends, keeping his gaze trained on your features as he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, electricity flickering along your nerves as you remember, all at once, how it feels to love like a wolf.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ he murmurs, the deep honey of his voice cascading over your skin.

In him, you capsize, throat tight as you close your grip around his, quietly asking him not to depart, not yet. Chanyeol holds your hand too long past the rules of propriety, but it takes work to find your voice, not wanting to mar the resonance of his along your synapses. You’d forgotten how it felt, time and memory dulling the rich texture of his words until they were brittle and pale in comparison. You’d forgotten how fully alive and warm he is, the majesty of him worthy of being revered.

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ you manage, pressing your thumb along the peaks and valleys of his knuckles in secret. His brow furrows just slightly, lips relaxing into a small pout that makes your heart ache before you pull your hand back, releasing him. 

Your arm falls limply to your side while his hand closes into a fist, tucking it behind his back as he stands to his full height, looming over both you and Lord Haysmith with a neutral expression. You always loved it when he stood tall, the full length of his spine a secret he liked to keep, one that always put a smile on your face and thus would reveal the dimples he kept nestled in the supple sinew of his cheeks. Now, you remember the way it also made you feel obedient, the imposition of his size so vast and great you would kneel before him, begging to be consumed. 

‘Lord Park has come into a great fortune,’ Lord haysmith explains, patting the hand that rests in the crook of his arm to capture your attention. ‘New money,’ he teases, and you laugh though it feels hollow. 

Your father was new money, and so you, by proxy, carry the derision of this statement in each interaction with men whose wealth spans several lines in their family tree. Together, you would laugh at this, as though there was any difference in the value of money at all. Chanyeol is new money, too, but you are all too deeply aware of the difference in weight that comes with his wealth. The inheritance, his father’s name, a fortune only given to Chanyeol should he continue in his father’s footsteps, a journey just like yours - except, Chanyeol had a choice. More than anything his family wanted him to be happy, the fortune would have gone to one of his brothers had he chosen to make his own wealth or his own living. Chanyeol would have been free.

When you were both young and in love, more than anything he wanted to be free.

Seeing him in this room hurts, the agony of all your decisions both made and unspoken threatening to buckle your knees. In the end, you realize, it does not matter how you chose or what was said. You have ended up in the same place, just at opposite sides of the table. 

Resting your hand against your chest, you let the tips of your fingers gingerly stroke the pearl strand of your necklace, pressing the phantom limb of his touch against your heartbeat. ‘How very serendipitous.’ 

‘Something like that,’ he agrees, catching the loaded meaning to your statement. 

Light from the oil lamps along the wall draws your attention to the small freckle on his nose. Once, it was your favourite place to press your lips, your hand stroking down the bridge just to idly caress it with affection. And it is this that somehow unwinds you, has you turning away entirely and politely excusing yourself, thighs tingling and legs shaking as you walk quickly, seeking a glass of water and company that does not make your chest quake with yearning.

~~~~~~

The sight of you settling into your father’s large cherry seat at the head of the table never fails to shock your guests, the abandonment of your lady’s chair an act of defiance many in the room find vulgar. You nestle easily into the red velvet cushion, resting elegantly against the high back of the chair as you place your arms on the thick rests at either side. Narrow in shape but utterly imperial in its grandeur, your skirts press against the sides with as much vigor as the way your penetrative stare leaves no man untouched. 

Four seats away, Chanyeol chuckles to himself as he takes his place, remembering your disdain for the rough velvet of your prior chaise. Tucking your chin to your chest, you fixate on the ornate decoration of your place setting, your own recollection sending you deep into the recesses of your memory. Long ago, Chanyeol had lowered himself into the small rectangular lady’s chair. You had five minutes alone with him, away from your parents and away from your chaperone. He immediately said he understood why you hated it, and you pressed the back of your hand to your lips to keep yourself from laughing. All of him, so large and firm and strong, pressed into the shape of something small with his knees tucked to his chest just to fit.

He said he understood, but he reached for you anyway, held your hands in his and said, with all of his heart, that he was glad to see the world from your perspective. To see from your eyes, he said, was an insight he would keep sacred. You’d pulled him up, wrapped your arms around his back and kissed him, first with your soul and then with your mouth. That day, you’d wanted to tear lines and marks into his skin so he would wear you - see with your eyes and burn with your touch, all of you wrapped around him until there was no longer any separation. And he kissed you just as deeply, holding your face between his palms to keep you against him until your lungs learned to share one another’s breath.

A blush paints red and pink smears along his cheeks, a sign he likely remembers the kiss far better than he remembers the chaise, just like you. Resting his hands on the table to steady himself, his eyes grow vacant as he falls into a state of pining, waiting to share the intimacy that will invariably come from this feast. 

‘The first course for this evening will be Mullagatawny soup,’ Bertrand announces from the shadows before stepping back through the door, deep into the kitchens.

The serving cart is wheeled in with little attention paid to two serving maids who gracefully place each a helping in each bowl. You, however, watch them with gratitude, noting the sullen way their eyes remain downcast and their lips have become pressed into a thin line, perse in concentration. When Sarah reaches your place, you offer a bright smile, expressing your gratitude all while quietly reassuring there is no reason to be nervous. This, however, catches the attention of the man seated to your left, his focus trained on the exchange with a grim cock of his wiry eyebrow. 

Tilting your head to the side, you simply return the severity of his attention in kind, your smile unwavering. ‘Please enjoy the soup, Lord Tennyson,’ you advise, keeping the tone of your voice calm and even, though your tongue becomes a dagger of its own accord. ‘The spices were recently imported, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to test them.’

Lowering his gaze to the soup resting within his bowl, he frowns as he regards the thin slices of chicken and the light broth that steams, welcoming and intoxicating. Harmless as it is, you laugh inwardly to yourself, fixing your expression into one of cordial amusement as you swallow the thrill of watching his patience slowly become unmade. Of all the men you must dine with, he has been your least favourite, even before you assumed your father’s position. And, with your ascension, he has only become more pompous and vile, weeks leading to these dinners consumed with veiling your fighting words behind the illusion of innocence. 

The first and second course continue as they usually do, your well trained smiles and hums of interest conducting the symphony of conversation with ease. Around you, men talk money while you talk industry, convincing them it is in their best interest to invest in the future and the growth of iron works. As always, only a few need convincing, while others simply need your undivided attention - to feel important, to feel special, to feel needed. You’re used to this, to the demanding way they speak at and over you, wanting you to listen and wanting you to want their opinions. It took work to tolerate, Lord Haysmith’s chuckling over several courses advising you to hold your tongue where they would not. 

Now, you smile, you nod, you hold their hand in reassurance and companionship, watching the way they return to their meal, pleased. The money comes without much persuasion, your smiles warm enough to light their seasons until you see them again. 

By the third course, your feet press into the floor while your spine remains rigid. At this hour, the wine begins to settle into the bellies of the more vicious guests, and even in you, it has gone to your head, pulling your eyes to Chanyeol during each lull in conversation. Lips red with wine and cheeks pink from the heat of a warm meal, blood rushing with tannins just enough to occasionally forget himself, Chanyeol laughs with the men nearest his place, his hand holding tightly to his utensils. 

It endears you, watching him breathe through the limits of his restraint, though it still causes a prick of sadness to settle into your chest, throat tight as you watch him live in elegant control. Your Chanyeol is not this way, not really.

Your Chanyeol gives over to pleasure as though pleasure itself is both the gift and the consequence, as though pleasure itself is not _him._ Every laugh still echoes in your mind, a thunderclap that follows the press of his hand into a table, into a shoulder, into anything, steadying himself through the bliss. Your Chanyeol laughs first and laughs loudest, hardly considering there is any aftermath, finding joy from one moment to the next, his smile never truly fading. 

Now, he clutches the knife he uses to cut his venison with precision, aware that he cannot express his amusement as he wishes, but it does not escape your attention. His shoulders jostle with the silence of his laughter and his eyes crinkle at the corners, just like they always did, boyish and youthful. Your heart joins him, your very soul walking atop the dining table just to curl around him just to feel at home. Sensing your attention, he turns to look at you, and while his smile does not disappear as you thought it would, one look at you and his muscles relax. Two months after your first meeting, he admitted that he becomes anxious when he cannot see you, nerves fraught and heart racing to feel whole once more. Looking at you, he said, he finally would feel calm.

For a moment, you forget there is history and there is pain; forget that there were tears and there was blood, your nails clawing at your own skin in an effort to be free from your vicious nature. 

For a moment you forget he is not yours, and he, too, forgets that he has been abandoned. And so, together you smile, knowing, feeling, seeing, the very essence of him nestling into the chambers of your heart, coming home at last.

‘And when will there be a Sir joining our pleasant evenings?’ 

Lord Tennyson’s voice interrupts your thoughts, a cold breeze tarnishing the summer of your mind. He says it loudly enough a hush murmur falls across the table, all eyes on you and their curiosity unbearable. Their interest is incisive, a voice given to all their innermost thoughts, the question of a man’s authority rising from the black where you had smothered it. Resting your utensils against the plate, careful not to make a sound, you pull your gaze away from Chanyeol who, who remains frozen, vacant. 

Primly wiping your hands on the cloth napkin in your lap, you lean forward, cocking an eyebrow at Lord Tennyson who remains calm, almost entirely aloof. The feigned innocence makes your stomach turn, and while you are certain he is aware of the venom in his question, Lord Denton hums in interest as though the very question is mere sport.

Reaching for your wine glass, you release a humorless giggle, dodging the full brutality of his question with affable elegance you hope is convincing. ‘Is there truly such a necessity for one?’ you question, running your glass over the vermilion of your lipstick. It smears along the glass, and Lord Tennyson’s gaze drifts to the bruising on the crystal. ‘I rather enjoy being selfish with my time, enjoying you all,’ you continue, looking away to remind him of his place, certain he will continue to watch the red as it bleeds among the wine. ‘I’m quite happy not having to share.’

Finishing with a wink, you lift your glass in cheers and the rest of the men follow suit, laughing through their self-importance. Taking another sip, you let the dry sweetness slither down your throat, keeping your mouth wet and full of more words should you need them. Scanning the room, you watch them all drink, waiting. 

Chanyeol, however, does not take a drink, does not even lift his glass at all. Instead, he trains his attention on the stem of the chalice as he moves his fingers up and down, stroking base idly, his expression detached and distant. Bottom lip sticking out in a pout, he retreats inward, focusing instead on the notion of absence and the way the title would have been his, once. Already, you can feel the weight of the ring on your finger as it clinks against the fine china, a phantom limb you woefully returned as a seal of your ending. It was his grandmother’s, and she said you were perfect for him. She was never wrong, and so you both believed her, your hand finding his behind his back to twine your fingers together, victorious.

As though the ring is still there, your hand feels heavy, and you press it into your skirts to force another texture against your skin.

All this, and still Lord Tennyson remains unmoved and impartial. He takes a long drink of wine and scowls in the act of swallowing, like the very flavor of your expensive Merlot is acrid and offensive.

' I dare say it might move some of the hands in Parliament to be more lenient toward the plight of the Unions,’ he presses, spinning the argument as a benefit to your factory workers. Offering you a smile that bares his teeth, he places his glass back on the table and shrugs, still managing to appear spiteful. ‘A man’s voice has a broader reach, Miss ____.’

Swirling the wine in lazy circles, you rest your cheek in your palm, and let the dust of his words settle in the crevices of your bones. Age has done little to soften the bitterness in his heart, the yellow of his teeth as cantankerous as his spirit, and even when you were young you wondered why your father had let him into the house. If his bank book was not so heavy, you would have excluded him years ago. And it is because of the gold of his buttons, the golds in his pocket, and the gold that foils his name, that you keep your words sweet, honey dew and warm that makes him cringe. 

‘I know I’ve told you before, it is Lady ____.’ As you speak, you can feel the veneer of your polite smile threatening to crack, and from your peripheral you feel Chanyeol look at you once more. The hairs on your arm stand to attention, heart stuttering in its rhythm, and you preen beneath his gaze, wanting him to hear you, to hear that this suggestion will not stand. ‘Sharing the evening with a Sir is not a pleasure I wish to partake in. I might rather affix myself to an equal.’ 

Several of the men release low chuckles, the sound dangerous and uneasy. You have riled them, and you are glad for it, hoping they hear no hand will sway the axis of your world except your own. But Chanyeol does not laugh, hands resting on the table with his palms up turned - in offer or in acceptance, you cannot be sure, but you remember all the ways he would rest his hand on his knee just like this, challenging you to take hold when no one else was looking. 

Swallowing thickly, you straighten your back and inhale an unsteady breath, regaining your focus. A challenge, you realize, since Chanyeol’s gaze always threatens to unmake you and you are always so ready to give over, and give in.

‘Besides,’ you continue abruptly, rolling your shoulders back to ease the tension that has settled beneath your skin. ‘Wouldn’t you all hate to have our little chats cut short?’

‘Here, here!’ Lord Haysmith slaps the table vigorously in support, the rumble of his fist rousing some of the other men out of their intense focus and quizzical brows. Others lean back in their seats, running their fingers over their moustaches in slow, skeptical motions. ‘The lady does quite well on her own,’ he says, considering the wine in his glass with a small pout, craving neat brown liquor. Lips pulled into a sly grin, he sighs, knowing he controls all the attention in the room. ‘Are you suggesting you are man enough for the feat, Lord Tennyson.’

It’s a cold expression he chooses to wear at the end of his sentence, a chill settling on the shoulders of every man who chooses to share the same opinion. You, however, tuck your cheek between your teeth, doing your best to stifle your chuckle. Lord Haysmith always went to battle against Tennyson in the courts of justice, almost always voting in opposition, their values so rarely aligned. In the years he had been absent from these meals, Lord Tennyson had been ever more vocal and free with his opinions, the relief of not having to share the hour making his voice bold. 

Now, Lord Tennyson narrows his eyes, clearing his throat with a grunt of authority. 

Adjusting the sleeves of his coat for no other reason than to occupy his hands, he smooths the frown at the corners of his lips in the effort of remaining cordial. ‘I am merely suggesting what would be to the benefit of the Lady, and thusly -’

‘Are you suggesting it’s your place to know what’s best for her?’ Chanyeol cuts him off, the rich texture to his voice suddenly incisive. 

On instinct, your spine straightens, the very sound of it rendering you subservient and docile. He’s never sounded this way with you, all humor vanished from his features while his large eyes burn like fire. Tongue wet and heavy in your mouth, your fingers curl into your skirts, forming fists to stop yourself from reaching for him, sliding down his torso to your knees and asking him to keep you. 

‘Is her judgement not enough?’ he bites out, unwilling to relinquish Lord Tennyson from the daggers of his focus. ‘Her mind walks circles around us here, yet we are all too arrogant to admit it. Perhaps it is you who should take a wife to learn how to compete.’

Lips parted, you feel as though you yourself are fading like a sigh, Chanyeol’s words resolved to a benediction. Free with his tongue and honest to a fault, he could never bite back his opinions, unafraid of being brutal in the face of justice. With your life, you trusted him, and now he has proven the worth, even if it is simply your honor.

Even if it means never sharing the life he would walk to the ends of the earth to protect.

‘The boy has been invigorated by the clink of his purse,’ Lord Tennyson sneers, angling his chest towards Chanyeol as he puffs it full of narcissism. He smooths nonexistent creases in his ascot with hollow cheeks and pursed lips, full of disdain as he waits for Chanyeol to crumble. 

Unfazed by the challenge, Chanyeol merely shrugs, looking at you as a smile blooms across his features, a spring into summer that puts a moonrise in your chest. ‘I am a man who is young enough to know I will live long enough to see the change of the world, and thus am smart enough to move alongside it.’

‘Lord Park,’ comes the light chuckle of Lord Asher. ‘I dare say, for your first night you fit right in.’ 

Chanyeol shifts his attention from you to his new conversation partner, giving you no opportunity to surrender to his smile and all the meaning kept within. You tuck your own smile away, keeping it hidden like you are concealing a weapon, picking your utensils back up to continue your dinner. Like nothing ever happened. Like Chanyeol has not again taken root. Like you have not begged him to.

‘I grew up with three brothers,’ he explains, following suit as he puts nonchalance back into his voice. ‘I’m well trained in the art of sparring.’

All the men seem to accept this, entertained by the tale and urging one of their new companions to colour in the details of his life. Chanyeol does so willingly, stepping over his words to leave your name out of the most important parts, ultimately rendering both his past and yours a stormy grey.

~~~~

The moon has nestled deep between the milky froth of cold clouds when Bertrand closes the door on the last of your guests. Silver light sneaks deceptively through the gaps between the foyer curtains, wrapping the floorboards in a phantasm of silk as you, skin warm and fingers tingling from the brandy and the noise, press your hand to your neck in search of relief. Your heart battles valiantly against your palm, this light touch too hot to truly be refreshing, all the alcohol having stirred the adrenaline you’d learned to suppress.

The house falls quiet while your mind resonates with one, single truth: Chanyeol did not say goodbye upon his departure.

At some point towards the end of the evening, he must have slipped out amongst the other guests taking their leave, perhaps gathering his things early to arrange the coach and escorting Lord Haysmith back to his lodgings for the evening. In truth, you find it does not matter how or when, simply that he did not make his farewell known, did not allow himself to be alone with you amongst a group of watchful, gossiping eyes. Chanyeol always felt too much and far too deeply, and a pain tethers itself to your ribs, a needle in your lungs that staggers each breath, when you realize it is _you_ he can no longer stand to bear. Reaching behind your waist for the small credenza beneath the gold foil mirror, you lean your weight against the fixture, and close your eyes.

You do not blame him, not really. What would you have done had he pulled you aside? What would you have said?

Brief moments with him are never enough, have never been enough. Around him, your tongue becomes uncontrollable, a wild thing demanding to be heard and touched, and in these sunless hours you so often hunger for him with a need that extends dangerously beyond passion. To say goodbye would have resulted in begging him to stay, willing it with your heart cradled in your palms, giving away all your secrets. You wouldn’t have been able to stop it, running your hands through his hair, all while risking the rejection and waiting for him to turn and leave - as is he meant to. As he is supposed to.

The house feels too large without his laugh, without the golden autumnal glow of his smiles, all your blessed, joyful days contorting against the shape of the oncoming empty days. You can still feel him there, etched into the veins of the walls to persist in sharing evenings with you. Quiet evenings while you read, while you paint, while he writes letters, fingers stained with ink that he would mark upon your skin. Tears threaten to crest over onto your cheeks, your heart breaking by the smallness of these private fantasies, unremarkable enough to be sacred.

Running your finger under your eye to wipe away any moisture, you inhale deeply, gathering your strength to keep your voice even. ‘I dare say that was a success, don’t you?’ Turning to look at Bertrand you offer him a smile you know he sees right through. ‘Even Lord Tennyson has promised to invest. All thanks to my charming wit.’ 

Bertrand cocks a single eyebrow at your show of optimism, his expression remaining placid and unfazed. He remains completely still, hands behind his back as the moonlight puts bags under his eyes. In the same moment, he appears both ageless and somehow older than his years, an immortal vision of your father keeping watch. 

‘Oh, please don’t look at me like that Bertrand,’ you hiss, pressing your hand to your stomach to catch your ever hurrying breath. You scratch your nails over the fabric of your dress, the sound and texture a comfort against your nerves. ‘It was one night. I’ll be fine.’

The words sound convincing, encouraging, and you latch onto them, pulling them near your spirit for security.

Bertrand clears his throat. ‘There is some urgent news that needs attending, Mistress,’ he explains, all emotion or interest absent from his tone. ‘It pertains to the investments. I’ve left the black books in the drawing room for your review.’ 

‘Wonderful.’ You mean it. Normally, you force these kinds of issues into the morning hours, your nights occupied with wine and the darkness it brings, the haze of the alcohol putting a fog over the crystalline torment of your memories. To not be required to think, at this hour, is a blessing. ‘Should I be concerned?’

Bertrand simply shrugs, moving from his position in the corner of the foyer to lead you down the halls to the grand drawing room that once belonged to your mother. ‘That entirely depends on your definition of the word, Mistress.’ 

The further you get from the door, from the bitter knowledge of Chanyeol and his silent removal from your life, a small, barely there smile begins to tug at your lips. 

‘Always to cryptic,’ you tease in little more than a whisper, while your mind races with the thought of how your life will ever reshape to exist without him all over again. 

The thought does not last long. 

Bertrand opens the large door to the drawing room, stepping to the side to let you pass through with an unreadable expression. You study your feet as you walk, letting your hands swish through your skirts absentmindedly as the brandy still tickles the edges of your nerves. They feel good against your hands, soft and expensive, ephemeral in the way they are there and gone again, an ocean wave ever retreating. 

As soon as you enter, you feel him, your feet coming to pause while your head lifts, taking him in. Chanyeol lives inside you like your pulse, and yet he stands before you, bathed in swaths of moonlight, making his skin glimmer like stars. He leans against your writing desk, patient while conversely trembling with thousands of unacted motions, his limbs tense with the effort of remaining still. Poised and radiant in the ever comforting shade of night, his elegance makes a mockery of the sun, and you are little more than the haunted embers left behind. 

You have grown used to satisfying yourself, to letting the eternal memories of him fade with peace. They are pleasant and they are rapture, but they do not compare to the totality of him; Chanyeol, and the way he rains down over you, a love perpetually poured into you like an act of war. From where you stand, the distance is enough to convince you he is an illusion, not unlike looking up to the sky and convincing yourself it is near enough to touch. He lingers beyond you like that, visceral and demanding to be felt, while your lungs burn beneath your corset. 

Chanyeol, in turn, looks at you and appears as though the surrounding world has faded into nothingness, finding absolution in the shape and curve of your body. He looks at you as though he is merely the space between the stars, your hands taking pause from hanging the tiny lights in the sky and all he can do is admire, crave, and admire once more. Long ago, you'd forgotten how looks like these made you acutely aware your blood was capable of carrying daylight within its veins, your entire life warmed from the inside simply because he could _see_ you.

Words live and die on your tongue, dissolving against your teeth as you bite them back. Chanyeol awakens your long broken habits or, rather, habits you convinced yourself were broken, your mind and lips inventing pretty words to give him, hoping he will be pleased. Hungrily you want him, arms wrapping around yourself to hold back the passion and the wanting he stirred with the press of his lips to the back of your hand. His lips, his mouth, the very thought of them reminding you of all the rest of him, all the blood rushing to the places you want him most, felt him most, growing wet with desire. 

Paradoxically, a part of you is certain you could find contentment with just the sound of his voice, your eyes trained on the way his hands frustratedly press into his sides. A small voice whispers at the back of your mind, spilling truths on how you feel him like a magnet, advising the pull between your hearts is strong enough to tear your bones asunder. Bereft, you feel yourself whimper. Weak, and wilting, and desperate, you urge him to speak, coaxing him out of his stoic shell to release you from this agony.

A false hope, you suppose, but a childish part of you hopes to once again know the fragile nature of peace.

‘I know you can feel me.’ 

At the sound of his voice, the vibrations of his baritone saturating the carpet, the tapestries, the oak wood, and your damp skin, a long sigh rattles through your chest, convinced the entire nation has fallen into a state of calm. Behind you, Bertrand closes the door with a soft click, so quiet you would have missed it had every sense within you not woken to keep the resonance of his voice alive. Just a few words from him, and you are suddenly alive, the most alive you’ve been in years, soul opening to accept every minute detail of moments shared with him.

Recollecting your spirit, you take in a slow inhale and follow Chanyeol’s gaze down to the swell of your breasts. Your thighs tighten at the sight of his astute attention, watching the rise and fall of your supple flesh, and you hold the air in your lungs long enough to hurt, remembering the way he was so easily in command of your blood. 

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, satisfied you sound familiar, not yet broken, at least a little, even if the cadence of your voice inspires a cringe to warp your expression. Your voice could never compete with the smooth chocolate of his rich tones, but still his eyes flutter, as though he must stop himself from swooning. 

Chanyeol merely shrugs, the motion putting moonlight in his hair and providing him a glow that seems to radiate from beneath his skin. In contrast, the oil lamps and few lit candles bathe him in gold embers, carving a regal, otherworldly sharpness to the line of his jaw. ‘I’m filling in for Lord Sayers.’

Dismissing his statement with a huff of breath through your nose, the fury within your marrow bubbles to the surface. ‘You despise politics.’

‘I know,’ he agrees, tone cool and collected. He sidesteps your challenge with ease, likely having expected all your fighting words. ‘I do.’

Crossing your arms over your chest, you cock an eyebrow at him in derision. With his hair swept back over his forehead, there is not a single strand out of place. His full lips are still wet from brandy and the grief of unreceived kisses - all this an alluring distraction, but you focus on the reason behind his presence rather than the way the air seems to ripple around him in celebration. In this wide room, you both shimmer like midnight, and the shadows you cast are long, impenetrable black shapes carrying all your pain in their arms. 

Sensing your obstinate silence, he continues. ‘But I find that is precisely why I should lend my voice.’ He pushes off the desk only to turn his back to you, letting his long fingers stroke idly over your glass paperweight. A purple crystal swan, wings outspread in deliverance - a gift he’d given you the Christmas before your ascension to power. Slowly, he lets his fingers trace its contours, voice a fraction of the power it once contained. ‘It seems I can add reason to the cacophonous discussions of men too arrogant to see the error in their philosophies.’

Clicking your tongue in dissatisfaction, you release a breath and take several steps towards him, proximity be damned. 

‘I did not walk away from us just to have you throw yourself to the devil,’ you hiss, your almost violent conviction capturing his attention. The bones of your spine harden as his eyes narrow in objection, and you become emboldened beneath his questioning glower. The chill of his expression runs along your bones, but you don't give in. You were always fire, together, burning hot enough to grow numb. ‘I never wanted this for you. You wanted to be free!’

‘I beg pardon?’ he exclaims, adjusting his body to mirror your position. Arms crossed over his broad chest, the moon outlines the hidden strength of his arms beneath his suit coat. ‘Do you deign to tell me you believe you left me for my sake? To save me from a piteous future of pandering to my father’s wishes?’

‘No!’ you exclaim, emphatic. ‘It was for me, always for me. I was a selfish and stupid, and confused little girl.’

As you speak, you can almost see her, a younger version of yourself haunting this room. She laughs easily, freely, her wide smiles full of intent and hope, ready for glory even at the risk and peril of everything that mattered. In those days, you spoke of war and love as though they were separate entities, their shared bloodshed an entirely foreign concept. People survived both those things, you thought, even though you had yet to learn how both can render you unrecognizable upon completion. You didn't understand, and so sacrifice came easily, even though it came with cruelty. 

Back then you would have given your family up for Chanyeol. Instead, you gave him up for yourself, to save yourself the regret of watching him buckle beneath the weight of your responsibilities.

‘It was for me,’ you continue, unable to stop yourself from softening, explanations morphing into a hollow plea. ‘I never wanted to see you here, having surrendered the parts of yourself that made you the man you were born to be.’

‘And who was I born to be?’ He leans forward as his voice raises in volume, the deluge of his emotions cascading like cold water down your throat. ‘You abandoned me before you had the opportunity to truly know the path.’

Scoffing, you match him, your loudness challenging his rising tide. ‘Someone born of light and art and music, beyond rules.’

Rolling his eyes, he unfolds his arms and crosses the canyon of distance that separates you. Your arms loosen but do not fall, head craning back to look up at him. His closeness is a threat, your soul in jeopardy of becoming Icarus beneath his sunlight heat, but the magic of his spirit keeps you rooted in place. 

The smile he wears is sweet, far too sweet for this conversation. Chanyeol is boyish and charming, ready to lovingly chastise you for your misgivings just like he used to. Between your twin heartbeats, the fever of your devotion begins to rise, warming your skin as your lips become dry. Even now, you become undone, anticipating the press of his skin against yours. The earth is trying to stitch you back together, recognizing your atoms are cosmically aligned, infiltrated by one another’s spirit and therefore, the only thing left is to bond. 

Inwardly, he grants himself silent permission and lets his hands take hold of your hips, pulling you close enough you can feel the pressure of him resting against your skirts. His touch is barely there, a ghost of how he used to handle you, but you can still imagine the strength of his limbs pressed against your hips, a tactile tremor you have never been able to forget. Again, your arms loosen, palms readying to reach for the softness of his cheeks before you stop, holding back, always holding yourself back.

‘A heart that battles willingly in the day can still make songs in the night,’ he reasons, all his gentleness marrying all his sweetness, uncompromisingly and heartbreakingly confident in his foolishness. Chanyeol looks at you caught in a rapture, his eyes glowing like sunrise, smiling at you with a love so thick you can feel it settle against your tongue. 

Having parted your lips in awe of this vision, his breath tumbles into your mouth and you taste him like perfume, your lungs infiltrated by his presence. When you speak, you are full of him, full to the brim as your tongue and teeth glide over the unspoken prayer of his name. 

Still, his explanation is not enough, wholly insufficient in helping you rationalize the boy you left and the man you have found. 

‘Is this the consolation you provide yourself?’ 

His eyes flutter closed as your words glide over his skin, shoulders relaxing and spirit resting in his new discovery of your voice until it fades, the echo nothing more than a memory. He smiles, the dimple in the side of his cheek giving rise to greet you, and your hands tremble, wanting to take hold and kiss him, to remind him that he is the only thing, the only bread that could nourish you. 

Knotting his brow, his expression falters to one of pain, stricken with grief at the distance between your bodies, and so he takes another step forward, his hands pressing into your hips to hold you in place. 

‘You would see beyond any pretense had you stayed by my side.’

Tracing the tip of his nose along your cheekbone, he speaks to your skin and your hair, slowly wrapping his arms around the small of your back and tenderly kisses at your temple. Unable to stop yourself any longer, the unprecedented thirst he has awoken in you burrows into your hands and you clutch the strong muscles of his biceps, your nails stretching into the expensive fabric of his suit coat. You hold him against you like iron, your spirit and his becoming little demons unable to refrain from loving one another to ash. He takes you in and you celebrate it, glad to live inside his blood like oxygen.

With an icy start you remember the dinner, his sharp eyes and the bitterness that claimed all the colours from his radiance. It’s your turn for your eyes to fall closed, squeezing them shut for fear of him seeing you break. ‘You know I couldn’t have,’ you whisper, shaking your head. ‘I’d rather have died than watch you fade away like this.’ 

Chanyeol will not let you win, never without a fight. ‘It’s drawn us back together, hasn’t it?’

It took days to convince him you were ending things with him, his heart the most stubborn and the most stable, orbiting around you like an enduring comet waiting for you to return to him. Only when you handed him the ring, sliding it off your finger and feeling as though the very movement of your finger was an act of death, did he finally, begrudgingly understand. Looking at him now, nothing has changed, nothing at all. 

‘Just as I would not watch you throw yourself to the clutches of sin, so too would I not subject you to the life of bearing my name.’ Balling your hands into fists, you push yourself out of his hold, stepping back until he cannot touch you. Shivering, you struggle to string your words into something coherent, feeling naked all the way down to your nerves, colder than a winter morning. ‘And I would not give over to anyone, not any man. Not even you.’

Chanyeol stands to his full height, hands still outstretched and waiting for you to come back to him. Throat tight, a small whine rips through his chest at your sudden absence, mind racing to understand. ‘You act like I was asking you!’ he exclaims, palms upturned and imploring you to drop your defences. ‘When did I ever ask you to surrender your power to me? Have I not, always, been the one so consumed and possessed under your spell?’

‘Oh, but not at first.’ Exasperation overtakes you, sends your arms through the air and your gaze ricocheting around the room. 

The oil portrait of your parents hangs just to the left of where you stand, ever watchful of your interaction with knowing, ominous expressions. Like always, you are drawn to the solemn features of your mother, the way her smile stopped reaching her eyes late in her life, and perhaps long before you were born. Ever since you were small, you would stare at this painting and tell yourself it would not be you. Happiness would not die with you.

Looking at it now, it tempers your explanations. Eyes locked on her satin dress, gloved hand holding your father’s loosely enough you are certain she would have let it go, you explain the truth of your heart to her cold and vacant grin. To look at Chanyeol would be deadly - you would lose all your strength, wanting to only give him the pretty words, the best words, and not the truth of how you would lose him. 

‘Eventually,’ you begin, sounding just like your mother, dejected by your own unmaking, ‘it would seep into your eyes, every time you would look at me from across the table. Men chattering in your ear about how it should be wrong I be the one to bear the business, slowly emasculating you until all you had left was the memory of pride -’

‘Pride?’ he laughs incredulously, cutting you off. ‘As though you were not my pride?’

His announcement is a thunderclap between your shoulder blades, your lips falling closed as you chance a glance at him over your shoulder. The tenacity in his eyes lures you around, turns you until you are facing him, ensuring you confront him head on. Blinking at him through dim oil light, and between the moonlight that demands to make a home of him, the silence in the room becomes deafening. Transfixed, you watch him breathe, shoulders rising and falling as hundreds of emotions swim behind his eyes. You count them, unable to look away, the depth of his irises a universe unto themselves, your heart pressing against your sternum in rhythm as they pass. 

The grief, the anguish, the hope, the misery, the love - always the love, enduring and never fading, as visceral as it was before. Perhaps, worse now, a love that has grown so strong inside him your knees threaten to give way, surrendering to him at last. 

'I would be permanently in your grace.’ Chanyeol lowers his voice to an octave so deep and so low, you strain to hear it. He speaks as though the very act causes him pain, as though every single one of your denials has ripped him to bleeding. ‘I was ready to live my life bearing your name, tasting your lips. The pride of my existence is the permanent pleasure of you, a blessing reserved only for me. Do you truly believe that you alone would not have been enough?’

The gold and pink hues of his skin become rich in the darkness, the flush of his primal appetite running hot beneath his skin. His fury is a tangible thing, lingering in the atmosphere until the very air has grown dense with his intensity. You inhale, but you do not take in oxygen. Instead, your blood is awash with all the innumerable ways he promises he would have loved you: like the kindling and the fire, all at once; like perdition and paradise, a sin upon your skin only his mouth could wash away in the very same moment. 

From this distance, you can still taste his pulse against your tongue, and with each unsteady inhale you swallow him whole. His pretty speeches have grown impossibly small, burrowing into your lungs to spread its hands like spores until there is no way you could avoid him, no way to leave him. This room is utopia, this moment a kind of bliss awaiting death upon the opening of the door. 

Behind you, your mother watches this exchange with a soul she had long abandoned, absconding within herself until her bones could no longer sustain her weight. Above you, one floor comprising hardwood and thick carpeting, Chanyeol’s portrait listens closely to the whispers of your conversation with Marlena. Both nestle into the nodes of your spine, reminding you this is easy - it is always so easy to love at the start.

‘Sometimes, my sunflower, love is not enough.’ Without thinking, the nickname you gave him when you were newly engaged, taking a promenade through the early spring blossoms, rises to your tongue. It weakens your resolve just as your words strengthen him. He doesn’t need to say a word, yet still you know he will defy every word you say. ‘Not for long. The things we call love are only ever the start, the infatuation of a moment that fades and fades, but we still cling to the embers for fear of letting them go.’

‘Unpredictable woman,’ he exclaims with a wide, almost rueful, smile. It erupts from him, not a hiss of disdain but a sigh of pleasure, feet carrying him to you without thought. 

The devil lives in this smile, a devil and an angel all at once, eyes scanning your face while your limbs quake with desire. You can smell him, again you can smell him and your skin compresses against your muscles in its aching madness to feel him. Chanyeol holds your attention, flooding your vision until the world around you dissolves entirely, your bodies two points finding each other in the empty, misty black. But he looks at you, long enough and hard enough you come to believe that blinking, the very act of no longer seeing him, would be an extinction, and so you don’t. Your vision remains in his command as he lowers himself to his knees, never once looking away from your face.

Resolute, he brings his hands to your hips with a speed that gives away he had planned it, thought about it long enough the action occurs in the space of an instant, time his little more than his plaything. The strength in his grip always catches you off guard, holding you hard enough his fingerprints could sear into your bones, scars left within the marrow to be found long after your death. Pressing his forehead into your stomach, Chanyeol releases a desperate gasp, a mixture between a cry and growl as he clings to you, emancipated from woe now that he has pushed the world aside to hold you.

‘Do you not see?’ he mumbles, the vibrations of his intonation latching onto your ribs. Pulling back, he looks up at you slowly, eyes walking up your body while he lingers at his altar of worship. The sight of him halts the air in your lungs, the love in his irises not a relic but a reality of a life you both continue to live. ‘We have already let one another go, a lie that we could never convince ourselves of. So what do we have left to fear?’

It comes naturally, the overwhelming instinct to reach for him, thumbs running over his ears as your fingers card through his hair. Each strand is smooth as silk, softer than you remember it being but just as thick. His eyes flutter closed upon your touch, a whimper of splintering through the fragile stillness you have woven around one another. Love, you begin to realize, is both a beginning and an ending, endlessly cyclical. His hands on your body are an ouroboros of desire, returning to you over and over. 

Not once in your long life, you realize, have you been at the start of love. Love is the choice to endure the act, even at the risk of watching it fade. In pushing him away, all you succeeded in doing was loving him until the molecules of your DNA could bond with him without protest. 

‘All my days, I spend conversing with you,’ you muse, words thick and voice tight, fighting back your tears with a force you find admirable. You hold him in your hands, not your painting but him, his mind always running circles around yours. ‘But when I behold you, you never recite what I expect.’

‘You will never anticipate me.’ A salacious glee overtakes his careful speeches, rattles you to the core as his grip wanders from your hips to the small of your back, pressing you against him as his teeth bite at the finery of your corset. ‘I have spent every moon since you left imagining your body on mine, the feel of your hands, the smell of you in my mouth. My hunger has gone so long, and I’ve had time to imagine your every argument.’

Mouth still pressed against your stomach, Chanyeol takes a large inhale through his parted lips, the force of it enough to take your soul out of your blood. By your own accord, you keep him in place, assuring that any innocence remaining inside you is his for the taking. But he fights against your hands, slowly pulls back to look up at you with the same wide eyes and passionate fidelity as the boy you left. At your feet, Chanyeol lays himself bare.

‘I see you from both sides, my eden.’

Hearing his old nickname, clear and present, neither a memory nor a wish, has awoken a terrible desire and picked at the scabs of unhealed wounds. In return, he uses the name he always called you when you were alone and he was safe to press kisses along the length of your collarbone in secret, prodding at the beast of your obsessions and asking you to become his she-wolf. His eden, his paradise, his first sin uncleansed and taken over and over again.

‘Come up here,’ you breathe, hands still cupped at his cheeks as he rises instantly, unable to ignore your command. ‘Come up here and kiss me.’

Just like he used to, Chanyeol sears your lips together with vengeance, welded iron against your teeth and tongue, fierce enough you think you might bleed. Snaking his hand up your back he holds you against his chest and lets his lips become reacquainted with the way you always lean into his kisses, his nails dragging roughly over your dress. Euphoria gnaws you through, and you take his bottom lip between your teeth, claiming him as your victory bell, a whimper mingling sensuously with his gasp of surprise. You swallow it, hands fisted in the thick strands of his hair as you cling to him for purchase, certain that your legs will give out from beneath you. You could collapse beneath such love as this, bringing you both down until your flesh and bone has merged with his.

Tilting your head for better access, your tongue slips between his parted lips and lets the tip stroke idly, imploringly against his. On first contact, a shiver of electricity walks down your spine to settle at the base, shivering in the protection of his arms and swayed by the waves of desire you find in the recesses of his mouth. To kiss like this is forbidden, against the rules of society and against the rules you made for yourself, years ago when you promised yourself you would not put him through this - through the onslaught of _you_. It surprises you how easily these taboos break alongside your resolve, shattering against your bones and unforgivingly irreparable. 

Chanyeol strokes the wet muscle of his tongue along yours, whispering demands of your body, and you, soul having already caught fire and mind primal, let him in deeper, and deeper still. No longer does your heart have the will to deny him, and you, perhaps, no longer have the will to deny yourself. At once, you find there is nothing he should crave that you would not give him, nothing he could ask of you that you would not become. Life, liver, limb, you would sever them of yourself, present your still beating heart to him should he request it, delighted to watch his teeth sink into the dripping chambers.

When you separate, his lips, already so plump, have grown red and swollen. Strands of your shared saliva stretch between your mouths and sink low enough to graze your chins, unwilling to break the connection reformed and reshaped by the strength of your will. Resting his forehead against yours, his tenacious control has shattered and he only manages small, whimpering gasps, relearning how to take in air after having gorged himself upon your lust. Pink with heat, the tips of his ears have grown flush with the greed of his appetite, and you press your breasts into him, hoping he can feel the unsteady pace of your heartbeat.

The level of desire coursing within your veins is unprecedented - vastly overtaking the level at which you wanted him the first time; the first time he parted your thighs, parted the lips of your slit, and pressed himself home was a canyon of longing aching to be filled. Now, your love is a hurricane, cunt drenched and heart soaked, asking him, the very wind, to unmake the steel of your joints. 

You are predators unto yourselves, and you do not want to recognize yourself when he is through with you.

Saying nothing, his laughter bubbles over until it becomes incandescent, a flower in his chest that blooms until the entire room is filled with daylight. Words of love collect on your tongue, thousands of different ways for your ardor to be expressed but all reduce you to silence, unworthy in the face of his incomparable beauty. Stepping back, he removes himself from your hold, leaning forward to kiss your nose in reprimand of your dejected whine, only to take your hand and pull you from the room altogether. 

Hand in hand, you race through the house, the laughter in you both burning. He leads you along as though the manor has opened for him, as though it is his, and in some sense it is. The high ceilings of the hallways seem reinforced in their strength and far thicker in this darkness, prepared to take him in and to never let him go. Chanyeol brings out details you had long learned to ignore - the scent of jasmine and vanilla lingering on the stairs, creaking floorboards beneath your feet that need two pairs of soles to make music. The noise of him contains more joy than the sun he keeps at bay, pulling you through the hallway, greedy and untamed. 

Pushing through your bedroom door, he latches it closed and searches again for the sanctity of your kisses, pawing at your lips and kissing what he can with a voracity that borders on monstrous. Fervently, you kiss him back with your eyes wide open, wanting every detail to be committed to memory, synapses alive and fully awake beneath his hands. Sensing your attentiveness, he too opens eyes, letting the closeness of your bodies disrupt your vision until he should be the only thing you see. Yet, he finds himself distracted, leaving the sanctuary of your mouth to regard your wall with a slow blink of shock. 

‘You kept this,’ he mumbles. His hands fall limply to his sides, toying childishly with his pockets though he does not use them, as he takes tentative steps towards the portrait, the dying embers of your fire illuminating him in a red glow. 

Waiting to feel embarrassed, you stand at his side and reclaim your position from earlier in the evening, though you are not ashamed, only sheepish. The glass of wine, still pink with stray liquid, rests forgotten on the end table by the settee, ultimately a relic of a previous life. Chanyeol looks at himself while a younger version, frozen in time, looks back at you both, his expression full of more mirth than you remember it having. Little has changed. His cheeks are still soft, his smile still combats the dawn, and the tint of his ears still give away all the thoughts and feelings he keeps locked within. Perhaps the only sign of change is the small tuft of grey hair scattered through his sideburns.

Chuckling quietly to himself, he studies you, and the sincerity in his gaze as he regards the way the portrait seems to compel you paints a blush beneath your cheeks. Having both with you now is a compression of timelines, a beginning and an end, followed once more by a beginning. Would you have been able to do without the portrait all these years? The very thought puts a pain in your throat so thick your words come clipped.

‘I couldn’t,’ you begin, hair on your arms standing on end, hyper aware of his presence.

Sympathetic and understanding, he repositions to stand behind your back and hold you against his chest. Strong arms wrap around your waist, caging you securely against him, and your eyes fall closed in momentary relief, finally remembering what it means to feel safe. Nestling his chin in the juncture of your neck and shoulder, he hums in encouragement, willing you to continue while, conversely, content to let you spend the rest of your days finding the right words.

Resting your hands against his forearms, you press yourself against him, relishing the security he provides. ‘You have to understand,’ you continue, leaning your head back to settle against the solid comfort of his shoulder. ‘I’m selfish. Being without you, even though I said it was necessary...it was like the death of every planet. This portrait was the only light in permanent night.’

A noise of empathetic agreement rumbles in his chest, vibrating against your back. Shifting, he raises just slightly, letting his nose press into your temple as he inhales the scent of your hair. His arm loosens on your waist, gliding gently up your corset to rest atop your sternum, long fingers toying with the top of your bodice. Tilting your head to grant him access and permission, you feel him smile against the shell of your ear, his hand sliding further and further until it slips beneath your chemise and corset. With his full palm, he messages your breast with purposeful, slow movements. Your grip on the arm encircled around your waist tightens, a sigh of pleasure escaping beyond the threshold of your lips. 

‘You were supposed to be in this painting,’ he growls, leaving a hot trail of open mouthed kisses along your ear, your neck, and down to your shoulder. 

Every touch against your skin is relentless, an electric shock that wanders over your nerves like a journeyman, seeking all of you until there is no crevice left untouched. It settles between your thighs, sending warmth and wetness to your core, the depth and ferocity to his words moving through your veins like liquid fire. All through the night, you had been slick for him, a fact you had done your best to deny. Over time, you’ve grown used to ignoring your desires until they cease altogether, until the only sign it was there at all is the overwhelming sense of displeasure and the cotton of your drawers stained rough from neglect.

Chanyeol massages your breast and your slit drips freely, a carnal desire settling between your folds that will not be denied.

‘I am here now,’ you breathe, reaching behind you to drape your arm over his shoulder and around his neck. ‘And I shall never have my fill of you.’

Turning, your lips seek the retribution of his, drowning in the softness of his mouth as you come together. The hand at your breast continues its ministrations, deftly moving his fingers with an intensity that borders the line of urgency. With each press, his palm grows hot, temperature increasing in conjunction with each stroke of your tongue along his. Your clandestine desires swirl in your belly, folds of your cunt continuing to grow slick with wanting, the very core of you remembering the solid feel of his cock pressed against your walls. You pine for his hand to meet you there, to press against your mount and claim what is rightfully his once more. 

But you are always this way, too eager and too hungry, rushing through the fire and still hoping you get burned.

Against your tailbone, you feel the bulge of his erection grow, his hardness insistent and imploring, eager to delight in the pleasure of your bones. Unable to hold back, a moan spills from your mouth into his, and he smiles, sucking at your tongue with impish glee. Removing his hand from your breast, he carefully drags his nails along your sternum, up to your neck where he lays his palm, neither a threat nor a warning but a plea, to remain there, against him, unflinching and unmoving, perpetually his. 

‘My soul runs over with you,’ he gasps, letting his thumb stroke idly against your jaw. Eyes wide, you regard him in a daze, vision clouded with lust as he kisses your cheeks, your brow, your lips once again between his words. ‘My lust for you is limitless, brought to the brim. Were it not for my skin, I think I should erupt everywhere at once looking for the tenderness of your touch.’

Applying slight pressure to your throat, Chanyeol hums at your inherent obedience as your head tilts back. With his large hand resting gingerly against the tendons, the obscenity of your moan puts a lewd grin on both your lips. The thrill of his closeness and the threat of his hand has your nipples erect, pressing against your chemise and into your corset, luxuriating in the way he so easily has you under his command. 

The truth he speaks is reciprocal, the blood in your veins thick and turning to syrup, sweetened by his presence and waxing against your bones until your skin feels thin enough to sever. When you are with Chanyeol, your very spirit is a menace, promising to break free from its corporal prison and love him into the cosmos.

Wrapping his hand back around your neck, cradling your head with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter, Chanyeol guides you back to his lips for one final kiss. Wetly you suck at his lips, nipping at the plump skin before removing yourself from his hold. He growls at your absence while you, shivering in the temperature difference without his body against yours, roll your shoulders back. The lewdness of your request seems to come from the black abyss of your desires, a secret you have thought only to yourself over and over, a wish craved that the stars deemed worthy of granting.

‘Undress for me,’ you state confidently, running your tongue over your teeth with pride at his wide, excited eyes. ‘Stand with yourself and let me see how you have grown.’ 

Chanyeol hisses his amusement through clenched teeth, immediately understanding your double entendre. Against his trousers, his erect penis strains, and even in this low light you can see the contour of it battling against the fabric for release. Cocking a single eyebrow in a tantalizing display of flirtation, he keeps his gaze trained on your expression and steps back so you may enjoy the view. Languidly, he takes his time removing his suit jacket, making a show of the slow reveal of his body piece by piece. The absence of heavy fabric reveals the muscles that have formed at his biceps over the years. Earlier, you had felt them through layers of clothes, but now you can see the way manhood has made a home of him, transforming him into a mortal Apollo. Dropping the coat to the settee, he brings his hand to the ascot, loosening it slowly.

This was always your favourite part of undressing him, man made cloth giving way to the glory of his skin; a gift bared just for you, less an undressing than the act of unwrapping the only thing you would ever truly covet. The darkness inherent in his smile tells you he knows, remembers just how badly your hands would shake in their haste to unravel him, wanting all of him for themselves. And so he takes his time, uncharacteristically passive in the removal of his clothes. Still, his hands shake, the small signs of his lust unfailingly erotic and only hastening the cataclysm of need that burns within your blood.

You are red hot and your chest burns as he removes the thin material of his shirt, exposing the muscles of his chest and the gleaming length of his torso. Since he was young he has kept the daylight beneath his skin, a glow within his blood like an undercurrent of dawn, and now he stands to his full height, proud to feel your eyes on him. Years of your life have been spent parched for the sight of him, and so you drink him in, tongue dry while your lips remain wet with hunger. Fingers twitching, you bring forth the memory of your nails running down his chest, over his sides until he would howl, eyes wide in abject delight, the act of tickling him inciting a riot. 

‘All the good of the Earth, and the Gods, and the sun still live inside you.’ The full weight of your sentiment bursts free of its own volition, your spirit always reduced to awe at the sight of him. Still, you whisper these words as a prayer, beseeching the sun king himself for answers. ‘How have you not lost such a trick?’

‘I live a life in love with you,’ he explains, dropping his shirt to join the suit coat. The blush at his neck inspires a long, slow clench of your inner walls around nothing, but it is the sight of hands at the top buttons of his trousers that has your knuckles taught with selfish greed. ‘The truth of your kiss keeps the affirmation of this holiness persistent.’

‘No,’ you announce, halting his movements, gaze trained at his growing erection and the veined hands that linger just above it. ‘That is for me. I want to be the one who frees you.’

All manner of seduction passes over his smile as he lowers his hands and stands still, a statue made for your exploratory touching. ‘Then come to me, my eden. Let me have my turn at unveiling the light of my life.’ 

He stretches out his hands, waiting impatiently for you to join him, but you shake your head, coy and teasing. A low grow rumbles in him, the thunder of his impatience falling into your heart like lightning, the shock of it stuttering its rhythm as it falls into your belly. Slit slick with wanting, you maintain your composure and take several steps back towards your large bed. 

‘You must come to me.’ Wrapping your hands behind your back to scratch impatiently at the buttons of your dress, you present the full roundness of your chest to him. ‘Come take what is yours.’

Without a moment of hesitation, Chanyeol prowls through the room, feet heavy with intent. In the dim light, his jaw clenches as his soul is set alight, preparing to commence its invasion between your thighs, your bones, your blood. You hardly have a chance to release your heated breath before he is at you, fingers unbuttoning the back of your dress to reach the laces of your corset with remarkable skill. Lips joining in a kiss that makes your lungs begin to burn, he sends a moan careening over your tongue and down your throat before leaves, pulling your dress down to the floor and silently commanding you to step out of the garment. 

In just your undergarments, your hands come to his chest, roaming along the peaks and valleys of muscle that have formed during the years of your absence. Chanyeol trembles beneath your touch, still shy and still demure even in the heat of his wanting, and you giggle, always enraptured by the way in which your touch affects him.

You remember the first time he undressed you like this, moved around you with care and a hint of uncertainty. He’d been astounded by the sheer amount of lady’s undergarments, though he was unafraid to ask for instruction at each new layer, making sure to kiss and praise the newly revealed sections of skin. He was shy back then, but he was eager to learn. Now, he is eager simply to have you, his fingers working deftly at each new tuft of lace and fabric, as though he has grown accustomed to all their complicated restrictions. 

‘You’ve laid with other women,’ you muse, though the statement is joyless. 

Everywhere you look, you can almost imagine another mouth kissing him, another mouth tasting him. You hate them, all the faceless and nameless others who thought they could love an inferno. Their skin was parchment, scorched by his touch and ephemeral at best. Your teeth ache like daggers, the moon in you desperate to hold her sun, to claim him once again and ensure no others shall trespass.

‘And you with other men,’ he retorts, matching your tone.

Chanyeol’s jealousy is a dark thing, the first place he goes upon rejection. The day you told him it had to end he held you to him and demanded names - any name of any man who could love you better than him. Hearing it in him now closes your throat, pores of your skin opening to let him back in, hastening in repent. The very sound of his possessive nature, visceral and returned to you once more, has your muscles clench, walls of your core holding nothing in and begging for him to be there. 

There have been some men, only a nameless few, who have made their way into your bed. Each time, you changed the sheets in the morning to forget their existence, feeling unsatisfied and lonely with yourself. Their touch only reminded you of comparison, of the ways they could not arouse the same emotions one smile from Chanyeol could. You made a valiant effort to move on, to take other men in, only to want them to leave soon after. Eventually, you stopped, certain that the only hands that could hold remotely as well as Chanyeol’s were your own.

‘They could not contain me as you do,’ you whisper, pouring comfort into your voice, not as an announcement of grief but a proclamation of loyalty.

With your bustle and corset removed, leaving you exposed in just your small cotton chemise and sheer drawers, he stands before you in all his pride and ego. Resting his hands at your waist, thumbs caressing the base of your ribs beneath your chemise, he walks you back until your knees hit the bed. Sliding his hands up your ribs and over your breasts, he lets his palms memorize the new curve and shape of your body, a knot in his brow as he studies every change. And only when he is satisfied does he bring them to your cheeks, cupping your face as he kisses you soundly.

‘You should not have expected them to,’ he whispers, kissing you once more to suck at the tip of your tongue.

All of your affirmations and agreements die, your fingers undoing the buttons of his trousers as you moan into his mouth. Hands caught between your bodies, your delicate touches graze against the thick bulge of his erection, his own small whines rendering him needy and malleable beneath your caress. Your Chanyeol is always soft, always falling into you with unbridled longing, overcome by his constant craving when you are near. Against his lips, you smile, glad that this too has not changed. 

With the front flap of his trousers undone, you tug them down his legs, scratching at the linen of his underwear. Locking eyes with him, your wandering and curious hand slips beneath the soft fabric, seeking your prize and gripping him with your full strength. Chanyeol’s eyelashes flutter, lips pressed in a full, seductive pout. He is helpless, though, as your thumb glides over his leaking tip, smearing the precum and sending his synapses into a frenzy

The heaviness of his cock, filling your grip with his wide girth, has your slit dripping further in anticipation, your cunt so drenched you have begun to feel your slick wanting reach the inside of your thighs. Leaning down, Chanyeol breathes into your mouth, sharing breaths as you gasp in unison, the shadow of your desires rising in your veins and consuming you both. His chest is flooded with red longing, marking itself along his skin as his blood rushes to his cock and balls. Your own breath becomes tight in your lungs, cunt and mound impatient to move the hardness in your hand to the sensitive skin of your slit, to feel him breach the boundary of your body, and you rock against him, whimpering with yearning.

Sensing your growing impatience, Chanyeol lets his hands fall from your cheeks, down your back to cup the cheeks of your ass, massaging the flesh with the same care he offered your breast. The strength in his hands has your legs parting slightly, allowing room for his knee to nestle in the gap, your mound and slit delighted for the solid pressure. Your hand leaves his erection, and he moans softly, head falling forward to look at you with pleading eyes. Answering his wordless question, you nod, gripping his shoulders with both hands as he lifts you by your thighs to lay you on the bed, keeping your legs spread wide open.

‘Hips up,’ he grunts, the command full of authority. 

Obeying with haste, you press your feet into the mattress and lift, gasping as his nails scratch the supper sinew where your thigh meets your hip. His laughter is dark, lurid, tugging your drawers down your legs with an impish grin. Chanyeol has grown into lust and sex, the colour of it sitting on his features and turning your pretty love into an incubus, your flesh calling to him to be taken. 

Settling between your thighs, he guides you up the bed until your head reaches the pillows. All the while, your legs remain spread, widening for him in encouragement and his eyes flash with adoration, lowering for just a moment to press a kiss of praise to your exposed belly. Running your fingers through his hair, you hum in appreciation, the sweetness of the action making your heart stop. Shaking your hand away with a quiet laugh, he crawls down your body, runs his hands along your legs until they reach your core. 

Fisting your own hands into the sheets, your wanton gasp reverberates around the quiet room the moment his thumbs pet tenderly on the swollen flesh of your slit. Rivulets of wetness leak from your sex, and Chanyeol takes in a deep breath, exhaling through his parted lips to savor the scent as it settles on his tongue. Impatient, he presses an open mouthed kiss to your core before he lets his thumbs separate your folds, licking at the juices of your entrance with only the tip of his tongue. 

If he releases any exclamation of pleasure, you do not hear it. All becomes a vacuum of sound with his name tearing from your chest, a howl of frustrated longing, needing so much more inside you than these light teases.

He’s never touched you this way, all your previous encounters full of haste and the untamed desire to be united. Now, he takes his time, unabashedly lets his bottom lip become soaked against your sex, and you tremble against the sheets, looking down the length of your body to the crown of his head. His hunger is a madness made manifest, eyes black with love and lust, the beast in him fully awake as his hands depart from your core to scratch down your thighs.

It takes work to keep your legs open, to not enclose him in your grasp and become the praying mantis you feel you are deep down, a huntress caught in her conquest. Your limbs shake, deliriously so, as his nails make their return, this time light enough to tickle you along the wind before returning to your core, separating your folds with the pads of his fingers once more.

‘Chanyeol,’ you whimper, sounding small and distant, rendered helpless beneath his skilled ministrations.

He simply hums, keeping your folds separated as his tongue dives between them, curling into your core with vigor. 

As his tongue makes its retreat, he pulls from you a moan that drips down the walls, sweat starting to build at your hair lind. Relentless, he chuckles, only to plunge back in once more, gorging himself on your juices. Aimlessly and seeking a tether to time and spaces your hand leaves the sheets and falls to the top of his head, rolling your hips up against his mouth as you fist his hair. 

But Chanyeol is quick, faster than you can comprehend your own actions. Instantly, his strong grip returns to your hips and holds you in place. Defeated, you cry out, a new wave of juices pooling in your cunt and cascading into his open mouth. He laps at you with unfettered ardor, thrusting his tongue deep into your core with piercing intensity, doing his best to collect every drop while simultaneously stroking every nerve that comprises your walls.

Your spine burrows into the mattress for support, certain that if you do not remain grounded in the totality of this present moment you will levitate, abandoning your body for a higher plane of existence. Feeling the tension of your muscles and certain that you will continue to remain still, Chanyeol walks his palms from your hips, over your thighs to cup your ass, spreading your legs slightly wider as his tongue pulls out and licks a straight line of your slit. Gasping for breath, you press your head against the pillows, looking up at the chandelier of your ceiling, quaking like the earth as the tectonic bones of your spine shift. Without little reprieve, Chanyeol returns his mouth to you once more, however this time his mouth wraps around the small nub of nerves just above your slit. 

Arching your back, you present your breasts to the open air as your chemise slides downward - a result of your hurried motions - exposing your skin. His answering laugh is dark, dominating, fully aware of the way he orchestrates the sounds and motions of your soul, moving his tongue back to your slit to thrust inward once more. Removing a hand from your ass, he presses a finger against the bundle of nerves as he continues to thrust the full length of his tongue rhythmically into your cunt. His finger swirls careless and messy figure eights, the pressure intensifying with each outward thrust, the uneven rhythm keeping you in a state of heightened need. 

Unable to keep your walls from fluttering around the penetrative thrusts he delivers, you clench around him, reveling in the solidness of the muscle as it pierces you. He growls against your cunt, the sound ricocheting through your bones and nestling in the coil that has tightened in your belly. On a deep inward thrust, a shockwave unhinges the nerves that cling to your bones, thighs tensing as you are hurled, heart first, into the overwhelming sensation that you are lingering on a precipice. 

You can feel it, a culmination of your years apart building within your belly and your blood, small whines panted alongside your heavy breath. Chest tight, you roll your hips up against his face once more, too far gone to care that you are meant to keep still. Chanyeol does not seem to mind, either, not once slowing down, even though the clenching of your walls hastens it's pace, doing its best to keep his tongue inside you. Even still, all of your heart and all of your wet, slick cunt craves something stronger, something larger, your very center begging to be stretched full.

At this thought, a long whimper falls from your lips, high pitched and fading on impact of his damp skin, his finger applying more rough pressure against the bundle of nerves. 

Only the start of his name becomes a prayer as your muscles grow tense within your thighs and hips, voice growing louder with your impending climax. The full word becomes impossible, too long and requiring too much breath to truly enunciate. Instead, your mind and mouth cling desperate to that first syllable, repeating it as an incantation to summon the bliss that builds like fire within your core. 

Emboldened by the sound, he uses the tip of his finger to, no longer swirl, but tap hard patterns to the nub, your hand returning once more to his head once more to hold him there as your hips ride vigorously against his mouth. Each roll of your hips delivers a deep, penetrating thrust, his finger consistent in its pressure and the tip of his nose, pressed against you, rubbing against the sensitive flesh of your cunt. 

Your release comes without warning but with perilous impact. The violence of it has your eyes wide open, mouth open in a silent scream as your very soul seems to shatter in the quaking of your bones. Heat floods your core, spilling into Chanyeol’s eager mouth as specks of colour erupt in your vision, and he presses his mouth in deeper, prolonging your climax. The fabric of your chemise is rough against your skin, suddenly making it hurt as your entire body becomes a sensitive livewire. You claw at it, hoping to tear it free, hoping to tear yourself free from your skin, the muscles in your thighs, hips, and belly warmed to a state of rapture. 

In the aftermath, the tremors of your orgasm still ripple through your veins. Chanyeol leaves a chaste kiss to your soiled cunt and runs his hands along your thighs to soothe your shaking, even this sweet graze of his lips painful enough to fade into pleasure. As your hand falls away from his hair, knuckles seared into the shape of his head, he pulls away from your core and falls back on his heels. No matter the position he is still tall, regal, and in this low light you can still see your juices glimmering over his lips and down his chin, mixing with his spit and drool. 

How easily his beauty transports you, even in the mess of your coupling you still open for him, arms spread and legs spread even wider, demanding he defile and infiltrate the very quiet, hidden parts of you. Your cunt still aches with the feeling of him, your nerves still burn with need for him, and your heart still breaks, mournful he does not live inside you as you so brutally crave. Writhing in the sheets, you roll your hips and lift your chest, inviting him to take your breasts and your flesh with a furrowed brow, displeased he should be so far away from you. 

Chanyeol’s greed and gluttony has always been a boundless thing, humble in all manner of social interactions but, with you, he has not a single resolve against his carnal desires. Before you now, he sits as a wolf, eyes raking up your body in consideration of his prey. It only makes you keen for him, growing childish in your frustration. You want him with you, against you, inside you, all your nerves have splintered into bleeding and this heartsblood is meant for the red plumpness of his lips. 

He crawls up the length of your body, letting his nose trace lines of his path along your skin, and you giggle with each gentle exhale. Still, he drips with you, leaving slick traces of where he’s been, full of ghosts for he will return there again, the wet shimmers on his lips and chin a warning. Cradling your head in his hand, he parts your lips with his strong thumb, retreating to the base of your lip when you move to suck him in.

‘Taste yourself,’ he commands, opening your mouth wide enough to ease his tongue in.

You do, you suck yourself clean from him, the bitterness of your juices and the natural flavor of his tongue mixing against your teeth. Chanyeol licks at the cavern of your mouth while you lick at him, this act of kissing utterly vulgar. In your bed, it feels like the start of cannibalism, skin on skin and mouth to mouth, Chanyeol digging his fingers into the flesh of your hip with enough force to bruise, and this, you think, is how humanity remembers they are living and they are mortal. 

Shifting against the pillow to swallow him deeper, his hand skirts away from your hip to let two fingers toy with the slit of your folds. A spark shudders through your veins, and you break from his mouth, crying out in surprise at your overstimulation. He continues, persistent in his effort to wholly unravel you, biting at your bottom lip as he runs his fingers over your slit, collecting the moisture that betrays your shock. With each stroke, the pain fades, returning you once more to the hands of incandescent pleasure.

Your writhing impatience causes the tip of his hard cock to press just below his fingers at your entrance, and you both still, Chanyeol burying his face into your neck to catch his breath. Stroking at the soft hairs of his neck, you provide whatever comfort you can, turning to kiss at his ear as his tip continues to leak precum against your folds. The thick head of his cock gives clues to the size of his girth and the intensity of his arousal, heavily erect and desperate to be inside you.

‘I need you,’ you whisper, kissing at the shell of his ear as you speak. The center of your core aches for him, having abandoned the memory of his tongue at the first cloying touch of his penis. 

‘I’m aching for you,’ he murmurs into your pulse, the tips of his fingers pressing just beyond the opening of your slit as he whines. ‘I need to be inside you soon or I might die.’

The feel of his teeth grazing over the thunder of your pulse has your legs widening, muscles straining at their limit. Kissing down your neck to your breast, he sucks your erect nipple into his mouth and removes his hand from your core, scratching at your ribs while the tip of his cock presses instantly at your entrance. The head is bulbous and swollen, large enough you fear he might not fit. Your memory of his cock between your thighs has diminished his size over the years, and you moan in anticipation of his girth.

Releasing your nipple with a pop, he cups your breast with his full palm and uses his thumb to press the nub down, taking complete control over the senses of your body. Molding into his hands you lift your head to kiss at his lips, but he shakes his head gingerly, smiling as he rolls his hips forward. The tip of his cock pushes through your entrance, a delicious invasion as that has you both sighing in relief, sharing breath. Stretching to accommodate his girth, he eases his cock in inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his thickness. Grateful for this level of care, you trace his cheekbone with your thumb, running your fingers over his ears as a silent thanks.

But this level of affection does not satisfy the fierce need that nestles in your core, needing to be filled completely. And so your hands walk down his neck, over his shoulders and down the strong, smooth slope of his back to cup the muscular cheeks of his ass, pushing him into you to the hilt.

His concentration snaps, eyes squeezing closed as he shakes inside you, his cock pressed deep enough to graze your cervix. Victorious, you grin, his forehead resting against your collarbone as you clench around him. Chanyeol’s moan is an avalanche over your sternum, dripping down and over your skin, your breasts, your ribs, your juices drenching his cock as it rests in your cunt. 

Fisting a hand in your sheets, he sets a punishing rhythm, thrusting against your cervix and ensuring your walls feel the veiny texture of him drag against the sensitive nerves. Unable to speak, you simply breathe together, sharing breath and sharing life, hoping that the smell of him remains on your skin for all eternity. When he finds the strength, he lifts his head to look at you, looking down and deep into your spirit with conviction. He steals your breath like that, steals all the darkness out of your blood, a storm within you that leaves the devastation of bright light in its wake. 

Every thrust has your legs shaking, the heavy sack of his balls pressing against your ass. You do not care who hears you, do not care who you wake. Holding him against and within you, his name bursts from your lips, garbled and broken, little more than a proclamation of undying devotion. He moans in harmony, feeling the vice grip of your walls clench around him as his muscles tighten beneath your grip. The pleasure ripples within you, spreading all the way from your core to the crown of your head, all your senses heightened.

‘Bear a child with me.’

The sincerity in his tone clears the dazed fog from your vision, and you search his face, seeking any sign of delirious wishful thinking. His expression, though clouded with lust and splintered with desire, is deadly serious. And while you are unsure where the question came from, what part of you he found within your core or in your eyes that could have sparked the very notion at all, you can tell he means it. He means every word of it, his thrusts only maintaining their fierce power as a show of his conviction.

And you want it. You want it with all of your being, perhaps as much as you want him. You cannot think of a better way for him to mark you as claimed.

‘Yes,’ you manage, your very acquiescence thick with longing. ‘I want that. Give me your child.’ 

Invigorated, he returns his mouth to your breasts, this time focusing diligently on the other. Your eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, images in your mind newly inspired by the thought of them swollen with milk for the child he would place in your growing womb. Ceaselessly, Chanyeol does his best to thrust deeper, reaching below your hips to lift you against his waist, trying ever harder to penetrate the muscle of your cervix with each inward push. Devoted to the idea of you full, pregnant, he demands access to your womb, the power in his motions sliding your back upwards against the sheets, hands forced to leave his ass to hold his biceps for purchase.

Unsatisfied, he reaches precariously for one of your hands and twines your fingers together, pressing your clasped palms into the pillow above your head. At this new angle your breasts raise for him, an offering. The black abyss of his eyes fixates on the red buds of your nipples, and he groans, lapping at them while your cunt flutters around him. 

‘I want to see you swell with the family we’ll make,’ he rasps, kissing at your breasts as he thrusts harder, battering the muscular ring of your cervix for entry. 

You feel akin to a wild animal, begging him to bury himself hard enough you could feel him in your throat, ensuring you end the night having conceived, already growing his baby. 

‘My every night is spent dreaming of you,’ he continues mindlessly, moving north to nip at your neck. ‘My life, my eden.’

Speechless, you squeeze his hand in affirmation and walk your other hand up his arm, winding a path to his shoulders. It’s almost ferocious the way your nails dig into his skin, not a single thread of resistance holding you back from tearing him to bleeding. You will grow large with his child, body changing because he has chosen you, and most importantly has chosen to live inside you. But your greed is the only one that could ever combat his, the demon in you needing evidence of his own changed state, your hands clawing at him to wear the aftershock of this evening for days. 

You both fall quiet amidst the rabid terror of your coupling, headboard jutting into the wall with each thrust, your voices and furniture a symphony of union. Let the world know, you think. Let everyone know that you took a lover, and your lover unmade you, the rest of the world and every mortal in it unworthy of your grace. Just like it used to, the first signs of Chanyeol’s climax has the hot wetness of his open mouth dripping down your neck as he thrusts deep enough you are certain your bones will ache come sunrise. Arising in unison, your own orgasm begins to build once more, hastened only by the thought of you heavily pregnant with his child. 

As though the image lingers in his mind as well, he increases his speed, rhythm faltering as he fights back the force of his climax. His cock continues to press the spot in you that has your orgasm rising, somehow to a point of overwhelm without any release, your bones unlatching and spirit crawling out of the cage of your chest to transcend above your sweat slick bodies. It continues this way, the strength of your orgasm feeling limitless but never truly coming, euphoria just out of reach as your limbs start to tremble once more.

‘Chanyeol,’ you whimper. ‘My Chan -’

A powerful thrust cuts you off, his name shattering on a high pitched whine. Pleased with the sound, and proud of his ability to always steal your words, he does it again, and your fingers claw at him, certain that you will perish to dust beneath him by the heat of your lust alone.

‘My Chan,’ you try again, liking the sound of this new name, this one syllable a brand for a new life you will create together. ‘I’m close.’

‘I as well,’ he chokes out, hips starting to move erratically. ‘Together, my eden? Make our family together?’

You catch his meaning, nodding frantically, wordlessly against the pillow. Hand leaving your side, his fingers return once more to the engorged bud of your clit, weaving messy figure eights over the nerves that has you shuddering violently against him. It hardly takes long at all, only four thrusts and you unfurl, quivering into your climax with a yell of ecstasy. The world melts until it is only Chanyeol that you feel - not the bed, not the air, not even your skin, all of you flayed down to your atoms, Chanyeol’s breath and energy a gift that eases you to floating.

The world is white hot when he spills his seed inside you, hips stilling as he keeps his cock pressed against your cervix. Wave after wave of heat fills your belly, your blood rushing in your ears as your teeth chatter over a cry of his name. Each time, you fail, writhing against him to take him deeper, to let him into your womb exhaling in bliss. Held together like this, and no longer caged within your bones, you latch onto the fabric of the universe. All at once, your world is little more than his heart and yours, your DNA marrying with his as it fills you, spreading all the way inside you like strands of delicate lace.

For a long while, he lays against you, cock softening and growing sensitive even as it remains inside your cunt. Your fingers stroke his hair while he trembles, small and soft, your Chanyeol, your Chan, the boy who loves like a fire. Glassy eyed you stare up at the ceiling, heart knowing more peace in this moment than you have felt in years. He kisses at your neck and collarbone every now and then, listening to your heartbeat as he struggles to come down from his high. It is only when he finally pulls out and rests against your side, holding you to him with a protective arm over your belly, that you look at him, turning your head to offer yourself the paradise of his features.

In the after, he wears an expression of drunken poise, eyes glazed and lips still wet, full of trembling as he succumbs to the power of being sated. The full glory of this is nothing like hunger, but just as dazzling, the expression of a man who has been held inside you over and over, and yet, finally, over again, the boundaries of distance and time dissolving with your touch. You, a woman who loves in the hours of thirst, bound of iron and bonded with him, your flame. 

‘Please keep me,’ he whispers to your skin, breaking the silence. His soft words do nothing to diminish his sincerity, never shy to speak his mind, to express his thoughts. Long ago, your pillowtalk consisted of astronomy, philosophy, politics. Now, he clings to you, this pillowtalk a plea of sanctuary. ‘Please,’ he repeats, sounding dangerously close to tears, the very thought of it having you press against him in comfort. ‘I don’t think I could live another day without you.’ 

‘And what about me?’ Brow knotting, you cup his cheek, needing his closeness. He leans into it, kissing your palm affectionately. ‘Do you think I’m strong enough to survive the absence of you? You asked to bear a child with me and I gave you permission. I think that means I need you, too.’

Ignoring the rest of your statement, he latches onto the pain, to the past. ‘You did it before.’

‘I had reason to then.’ Curling into him, you make certain he can feel the whole length of your body. ‘Doing it again would kill me.’

‘I need you to say it,’ he pleads, the hand at your belly splaying its fingers wide. ‘Tell me you’ll keep me. Let me be your husband. Let me father your children. My heart breaks the moment I can no longer see you. For my sanity, let me stay.’

‘Be mine,’ you murmur, kissing him between each of your words. ‘Make me your wife. Let me spend my whole life watching you try to best my love.’ 

Rolling over to linger above you, caging you between his arms he kisses you soundly. Tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue, you moan with glee when he opens for you, your fingers tickling at his ears as you explore the recesses of his mouth, memorizing every shape and flavor.

‘You tease because you cannot feel how much my heart aches for you,’ he mumbles as he breaks away, resting his nose in the crook of your shoulder and inhaling deeply.

‘I speak truth,’ you giggle, raking your fingers through his hair, addicted to the feeling, ‘because you cannot hear how intently my whole lifetime listens to yours.’

‘Then let me show you.’ Each word is a bite at your neck, a nip of teeth to your pulse, another request for access to your blood. ‘You are my heart and my life.’

‘Show me, then,’ you whisper, releasing him from your hold and spreading your legs wide. His cum drips between your slit, staining the bedsheets permanently. ‘I fear I may have forgotten.’

**Author's Note:**

> cross posted from my tumblr: https://yeoldontknow.tumblr.com/post/633692648822243328/iron-wrought-m


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